His Eyes
by The Mad Techie
Summary: A ruthless attack on Logan's family drives him mad. Can Ororo bring him back? [LoganOroro]
1. The Mountians of Madness

THE MOUNTIANS OF MADNESS

The horrible howl was as brutal as a throat-cut shriek, but more brutal, deeper, less hopeful of a swift end.  
Scott Summers came running from one directions, clad only in a pair of shorts, while Ororo Munroe came from the other, a robe casting shadows over her dusky skin, drawing out the moon-paleness of her hair and eyes.  
Door were rattling open, sleepy voices speaking, as a shadow, nothing but nebulous edges and wild, burning eyes moved with cat-grace speed from the bowels of the dwelling.  
Jean Grey, who had arrived moments after Scott, gasped and involentarily broadcast the telepathic chaos she discovered emenating like Medusa's tendrils from what was once a barracks-neat room.  
_Blood. _Pounding throb of hunger-need-savagry in the ears, blocking all other sounds. _Take. _Scrap of paper, falling in a blood-cut-sharp line, twirling then as it drifted in shattered pieces to the floor. _Hunt. _Disjointed images, of the last struggles of prey, the mad dash, the warm savage glee of dominance and territory as the feeding began. _Alone. _Freak. Outsider. Beast. Shamed. _Scent of flowers. Scent of blood. Ice-cold grip flowing back around his heart._  
Fangs glinted briefly in the the shadows as the wild flurry of uncontrolled telepathic imagry seemed to fragment, exploding, then slide back, behind a dark and deadly face of - what?  
Half-crouched, growling, Logan exploded from the shadows, claws extended, expression so crazed it defied wild - so agonized it burned home the horror of it's appearance.  
"Damn! Scatter! Wolverine's gone beserk!" yelled Scott, switched to command-mode.  
_Alpha. Die. _Driven by instinct, the feral mutant spun, claws at full extention, and swung out wide, in a movement designed to eviserate. A hunting manuver. Territory-battle.  
Professor Xavier's telepathic force suddenly joined them, but the shorter mutant snarled in fury, showing no sign of recognition. He thrashed wildly, despite his friends' attempts to restrain him.  
Finally, Hank McCoy - arriving from the MedLab - managed to leap into the fray, and with the combined force of Scott, Ororo, and himself - and the telepathic efforts of Xavier - managed to shove a hypodermic into Logan's muscular shoulder.  
His head was turned toward Ororo as he collapsed, eyes on her, watching her, hand outstretched as though reaching for her, fingers twitching - then he was still.  
"Thank God." whispered Scott, climbing to his feet, trying not to wobble. "Thank God's _that's _over!"  
But Ororo was staring into her own hands, unable to forget - to even move the image from her eyes - of those eyes, those haunted, maddened, _agonized _eyes...

Xavier emerged from the medical-quiet of the MedBay, his expression ashen and drawn. He seemed to have aged ten years in the span of an hour, and everyone felt the strain.  
"Professor?" Scott's voice was questioning, but concerned.  
"I attempted to scan Logan's mind." Xavier folded his hands. His eyes closed, and his students were shocked to see tears on his lashes. "Let me...show you." he whispered.  
_Shadow-form, claws shadowed moons,eyes so full of - everything. Rage and pain and - yes, even hate. A creature of wild savagry. Needing the kill, anything to feel, to feel - to _feel. _In the distance of that mind, a whisper of the tattered, shredded conciousness, Logan stood briefly, screaming, _"You never knew me! None of you! I was just your damn hunting dog!"  
But the shadow-form was blown away as if by a gust of fretful wind, leaving first only the howling agony, then the crushing ache of silence.  
Out of that mind was eased a single, tortured image.  
A list. A list of names.  
Friends.  
Logan's friends.  
Some older, some younger.  
Crossed out in blood.  
Marked with the symbol for extinction.  
And pictures, perverted in their precision, of fallen bodies, mutilated in sergical percision, tortured, then cast aside.  
A girl, fresh on the edge of her teen-age years, lay dead beneath the shielding body of a Japanese woman. Scattered around them were heaps of bodies wearing the crest of Clan Yoshida.  
Yukio.  
Akiko.  
More, a series of chemical equations, written in a neat, precise hand.  
"Hank?" Scott's voice was uncertian. This level of chemistry was beyond him.  
Instinctively, almost desperately, the small group turned their mind from the gruesome images and the fear for their friend to a threat they could fight, could beat - could _throttle._  
When the felinoid mutant saw the symbols, his expression was one of complete and utter disbelief, followed by a horrofied understanding.  
"What is it?" Jean rested a hand on the blue-furred shoulder of the cat-like genius.  
"A plauge. A terrible plauge." He looked up. "One that will make Legacy look like the common cold. It...it...kills humans." His voice shook uncharacteristically. "Alters their genes, makes their red blood cell walls rupture, massive bleed-outs...."  
"How can we deal with it?" Scott, ever practical, ever ready to fight against impossible odds.  
"You don't understand, my friend." Hank's gaze was earnest. "You _have _to see." Taking a deep breath, he managed to explain. "The plauge is not a virus, but a protazoic mimic. By now, it's attached itself into every level of the food chain. Pollution, atmospheric especially, would give it a perfect growth environment. Every human, mutant, animal, every form of life ever to walk on this planet is carrying it in their system. But it's reached critical mass, a kind of chain reaction, and now, unless you have the X-gene, which seems to use the protozoic mimic at some point as a food source, it will simply - and I do not say this lightly - kill you." His cat-like gaze was almost desperate. "Within 4 months, we will have 6 million dead." The shock left them silent, agast at such a vast number. "Three months later, 1 billion. By the end of the year, there'll be one human non-mutant left alive on Earth. Just one."  
"Goddess." whispered Ororo, unable to find words for such horror.  
"My God." Scott's voice shook.  
There was a long silence as Xavier looked away, tears dampening his cheeks, his expression one of stricken agony.  
Finally, as their world simply crashed into shambles, facing a horror beyond their imagination, a question they could ask, needed to ask, needed to focus on for their sanity, was returned to.  
"And Logan is...?" Hank's normally warm voice held an edge of anger as his heart went out to his normally gruff friend.  
Xavier took a deep breath.  
"Logan is insane."

Part II, "_Grasping at the Cliffedge", _in one week!


	2. Grasping at the Cliffedge

GRASPING AT THE CLIFFEDGE

The silence in the small room was eerie.  
Logan's body lay still on the bed, his gaze fixed on the cieling, unresponsive, unmoving.  
Perhaps a better discription would be that his eyes were simply turned upwards, for they never moved, showing no reaction to anyone who entered or left.  
The whole group was shaken more by that stillness than if the Wolverine had gone beserk, tearing the room to pieces and slashing the walls open to escape - it would have given them some course of action, something they could do, but this was a horror they were simply forced to face and endure.  
There was only silence.  
But the eyes that flicked open in Logan's face were golden-amber, savage, wild...

Hank worked with a dedication that was to be admired in the best of circumstances. Now, in the worst, he was almost completely single-minded in his quest to discover any form of cure or immunization. _Anything._  
Food was ignored, and the wide, muscular body began to show signs of weight loss, the kind, sensitive eyes were marked with strain.  
He slept only to avoid the possiblity of errors, and even his redoubtable constitution was beginning to be put to the test.  
If only there was some way to give them time, desperately needed _time.  
_  
"Logan?" Jean asked, softly, seated next to the bed that housed the body of her friend.  
The eyes did not flick in her direction, nor show any recognition at all, even when she lifted his hand to her cheek and held it it there briefly.  
Gently, she touched his mind.  
Nothing.  
No response at all.  
Only silence and stillness.  
Xavier's voice reached her, as though from a great distance, voice distraught.  
"We are losing him."  
Jean closed her eyes, struggling to fill that vast empty void with the warmth of her own memory, of her and Scott and Logan all laughing together, one warm summer night, as Bobby slipped and went flying into the pool after one of his pranks backfired.  
A reaction, sudden and violent, as Logan swung his arm, claws ripping loose the restraint, sending the young woman staggering into the wall.  
His eyes flashed wild-golden, teeth set in a furious snarl, expression containing fury and warning. The claws slashed, and the Wolverine was loose, crouched in a corner, eyes blazing as the rest of his body faded into shadow, watching them through eyes as wild as a great cat's, muscles tense, clearly ready for anything.  
Jean tried to reach out to his mind and found herself violently rebuffed, a low growl rumbling from the hidden throat of the Wolverine.  
Xavier looked startled. "I cannot reach his mind." he said, voice dropping an octive with suprise. Normally, there were few minds he could not access if he tried, the huge predominence of them telepaths. But in Logan's mind, there was a wildness that rejected him, casting him out with the ease of any trained psionic.  
"Logan, do you know who we are?" tried Jean, voice soothing and soft.  
_ Alpha's mate. Old-in-pack_. The thoughts were not really thoughts, more sharp-edged identifications that were accompanied with shutterclicks of imagry, color and scent and sense-awareness that were as beyond the two telepaths as their own psychic awareness was beyond the average human's.  
They glanced at each other, and Xavier tried then, speaking in gentle, soft tones. "We are your friends." he said, carefully.  
There was a growl_. Lone_. was the reply, with a flicker of self-image_. Lone. No pack_. Logan padded forward, staring into Jean's eyes with a feral, deadly expression. The flurry of images were of being _- used_.  
A hunting dog for Xavier's dream. An alternative to Jean's often-uncertain marriage.  
Used.  
Staying because of - what?  
Bonds that confused the Wolverine, and angered it.  
Now they held it captive.  
It popped it's claws.  
_ Go_. Images of leaving the room, not returning. Confusion! Pain!  
A snarl that rippled into a growl. Wolverine wanted them out, away, gone. There was hurt in their scent, but there was also shame. That angered it further. It slashed it's claws at the air, warning, slow-threat.  
They went, the barrier closing.  
The Wolverine curled in it's corner, nursing it's wounds.  
Pain. _Pain_. Ache. Lonliness. Trapped. Anger.  
It rocked slightly, testing the air with it's nose.  
The pain was still there.  
It popped a claw and cut deep into it's chest, where the pain seemed to be coming from. Blood came, and the fading of vision, but there was only puzzlement.  
The pain did not end.  
Only - paused.  
It moaned.  
Collapsed on the floor.  
Watched the red liquid pool as shouts and the sound of running feet toward the barrier.  
_ Painpainpain_....blackness...floating...  
There was nothingless.  
The Wolverine was glad.

Scott was badly shaken as he saw the wide bandage that hid the horrible gash Logan had inflicted on himself.  
"Shouldn't we restrain him again?" he asked, hesitantly.  
"It would do little good." replied a shaken Xavier. "We cannot _force _Logan to respond to us."  
"We can't let him hurt himself again!" cried Jean, tears streaming down her cheeks.  
"Perhaps," suggested a weary Hank, "I might offer a suggestion?"  
Everyone turned to him.  
"Apparently, from the description given by both Charles and Jean, he will not accept any form of contact from them right now. A male might well be seen as "invading" his territory - so might I suggest that Ororo try to reach him?"  
Ororo regarded him with some puzzlement. "I do not object, but...I'm not sure I understand your reasoning." she said, softly, sipping her tea.  
"Logan would most probably see you as neutral, and non-threatening, vital in any attempt to reach him." explained the blue-furred mutant.  
"I'll try." promised Ororo, her beautiful snowy eyes sparkling with worry for her friend. She briefly saw those eyes again, staring at her, wild and full of agony, hand stretched out toward her, and the young woman swallowed hard. "I'll reach him somehow."  
It was a vow.  
And Ororo Munroe kept her promises.  
Little did she know what that promise would entail in the end.


	3. Building With a Magpie's Wings

BUILDING WITH A MAGPIE'S WINGS

Ororo made her way down to the MedBay, a gym bag over her shoulder, feeling a surge of unaccustomed uneasiness.  
In her heart, she feared seeing Logan's madness for reasons that ran deep. However, they were nebulous and impossible to define, so she shoved her emotions aside and placed her hand on the door, hearing the faint click as it accepted her hand and retina prints in the pulse of a moment.  
The door slid open obligingly, and the shadows seemed to ripple and flow, the only marking of the room's inhabitant.  
Hearing the door slide shut was no comfort, for it placed her squarely in Logan's territory, and she knew it. Yet she refused to allow herself the luxury of fear.  
"Logan?" she asked, keeping her voice soft and low.  
A low growl. Ororo was aware then that she was being circled, scented, observed.  
The restraints were tatters on the bed.  
She felt a chill knowing that he was unfettered, but again, she remained calm and spoke softly.  
"Logan." she made the name a statement.  
Another low, sharp growl. Glints of gold marked the point that her teammate and friend had halted, watching her from the shadows.  
"Do you understand what I am saying?" Carefully, she moved deeper into the room until a harsh sound warned her she was to stop.  
There was no reply.  
Logan resumed his restless circling.  
Ororo waited until his circular movements brought him to the edge of the shadows, where she could see his outline. That and his sharp, observant eyes.  
She brought the bag she carried out, setting it on the floor, then moved back.  
Logan moved forward, a claw extending, and fished it back into the shadows. She heard him slash it open impatiently, the rustle of movement, then the soft clicks of her offering.  
Old toy blocks spilled onto the floor, and he looked back at her, eyes tracking her movements.  
Taking a series of letters, she spelled out his name. "L-O-G-A-N." the weather mutant said, softly, resting a finger against each block.  
Logan swatted them aside, expression fierce. He grabbed one block, sniffed it curiously, then tossed it to the floor.  
She picked it back up, watching him. "That is your name." Keeping her voice gentle and reassuring, she tried again, and the reaction was similar.  
Finally, she lifted a block and tried again, a different name.  
"O-R-O-R-O." Indicating herself, the young woman pointed to the blocks. "My name."  
He sniffed the air, and suddenly her senses were assailed by scent and awareness. Scent-almost-taste of honey and almond. Orchids in bloom. Clouds clean and soft swirling about.  
Logan regarded her with unreadable eyes.  
Ororo was shaken, but handed him a block.  
He crouched down, placing one atop it.  
Encouraged, she placed another block, then he, and soon they had a small, wobbling building that rose almost a foot high.  
Smiling then, she made a motion as if to knock it over, for the sheer fun of it.  
His eyes were puzzled as he obliged. Blocks went everywhere, and Logan gathered them up, returning them to a pile in front of her, clearly curious as to what silly game she intended to play next.  
As they stacked and built, she tried to coax his memory, any recogniton at all, but he did not respond, other than to growl low in his throat. Strangely, it was not threatening, only a dismissal of her attempt to broach the subject.  
Several hours later, she rose and promised, "I'll come back tommarrow."  
_ Captive. Lone. _was the eddy-thought-sensation in reply.  
Ororo left quickly.  
Once outside, she leaned against the door, struggling not to weep for her friend.  
Yet the strangest thing was - she had enjoyed herself with him.  
Playing with simple, non-technological blocks, she had _- fun_.  
With Logan?  
She had fun - more fun than the board games the group occasionally played. More fun than the television, even more - or at least as much - pleasure as she had working with her plants.  
Ororo was confused, but more, she was deeply worried.  
As she left the area, she tried to think of another simple toy she could use to jog the memory of the mutant known as Wolverine.  
Even in sleep, late that night, she thought about coloring books and action figures, pencils and blue horses, and a little boy with golden eyes that watched the others play but stayed in the shadows, watching...watching...  
_ Watching..._


	4. On Shelter and Bone

ON SHELTER AND BONE

Ororo did not speak of her time with Logan, even to the concerned Jean. If she were to help her friend at all, it seemed that privacy would be paramount to him.  
Which made her consider, as she worked silently with the plants lovingly scattered around her room, that none of them really knew much about the life of the man they called a team-mate outside of thier own concerns.  
When they needed him, he was there. Always, without comment or judgement, a bolstering presence of gruff affection and boundless strength.  
Was the opposite true?  
Once she would have immediately answered in the affermative.  
Now she wasn't so sure.  
Did it take this complete loss of him to make them realize how alone he truly was? Even within the group that claimed to love him?  
Her heart ached at the thought of the man she knew trapped the rest of his life in the realm of madness, unwilling - and perhaps unable - to accept the help offered him.  
He deserved so much more than the enforced austerity she saw in his life.  
But what truly puzzled her was why this moved her as deeply as it did.  
She was a skilled leader, practiced in detachment and observation, and naturally gifted as such. This was not arrogance, rather acceptance of a facet of herself.  
But why did Logan's situation matter so very much to her, even beyond the emotions she would have expected? The more she tried to understand it, the more elusive the answer became.

Logan seemed to be curious as to Ororo's latest toy, and sniffed it repeatedly before sticking his finger in it. His expression was almost comical as the finger-paint dripped onto the floor, splattering over his hand and down the simple one-piece jumpsuit he wore.  
He shook his hand violently, and Ororo laughed involentarily as bright red paint flickered against her skin, leaving ridiculous stains on her cheek and hair.  
More cautiously, Logan stuck a finger in the small container, and Ororo gently caught his hand, guiding it to the floor, encouraging him to make small circles against the metal.  
Logan gave a strange little chuffing sound and promptly began to make a grand mess.  
Greens and reds and blues were soon blended together in myriad shapes as he slid his hands over the floor, glancing occasionally at Ororo as she did the same.  
She was secretly enjoying this game immensely. It had been years - so many years - since she had played so freely, and made such a mess with such enthusiasm. With her natural need for order, this was a secret little thrill that appealed to her in a way a more "sophisticated" game would never be able to match.  
Logan abruptly brought a hand up, smearing greeny-blue paint over her nose and cheek.  
It was the first time he had touched her.  
She blinked, coming back to the moment and smiling reassuringly.  
_ Mud_. was the simple sensation-thought-scent-awareness_. Color_. Flashes of colors unseen normally by any human eye, faceted through sunlight and sparkling on the wind.  
Was he asking for more? Ororo wasn't sure.  
"More, Logan?" she tried to use his name as much as possible, in the hopes he would grasp onto it, remember, show some kind of awareness.  
_ Color. Mud_. His golden eyes held her's, feral and sharp, but not threatening.  
"More color?" the weather mutant tried again, holding up a small can.  
_ More. Color all. Bring_. It was slightly forceful. A command that she found entirely natural to obey until thought kicked in, and she wondered at it.  
"I will bring more tommarrow." she took his hand, felt the tension, watched his eyes for recogniton, saw only golden fire.  
_ Bring. Dawn. Come_. Were the thought-eddies she found pressed against her senses, and she smiled.  
"I'll be here in the morning, with more colors."  
_ Go. Sleep. _It was a dismissal, and Logan returned to the corner he had claimed as a sleeping place.  
The bed had not survived that choice, but his nest was clean and soft, and he seemed more comfortable on the floor than in bedframe, so Ororo had merely made the observation.

The next morning, Ororo dressed as she had the last two days - simply, in old jeans and a clean, unscented shirt. Absently, she wondered if Logan smelled all the scents around him, all the time, and suddenly halted in the process of brushing her hair.  
_ Constantly_? she thought, a little awed by the prospect.  
Always aware of the smell of clothing machine-washed, smelling clean to them, did it's scent only register as metal and processed soap to him? Did it mask their scents, muddying them, making one more distance between Logan and those he should be able to trust, hold fast to?  
Her mind wandered into a mental corridor she had never quite explored, and she had to return to brushing to keep her hands from trembling.  
Did he always smell Scott's scent on Jean? Another slap in the face, a hurt constantly reinforced as she flirted with the Canadian?  
Was it one more absent comment, not said but constantly flung at Logan's feet, that he was an outsider?  
Ororo finished and looked down at her hands.  
For once, she wasn't sure if they were shaking with pain - or anger.

Professor Xavier tried to be kind, tried to reach Logan a few more times, but it simply seemed that he was either ignored or all but forced from the room with irritated swats at his face with extended claws.  
Clearly only irritated, or the telepath might well be missing a head.  
Ororo could tell he was puzzled, even slightly bewildered, at the utter rejection of his help.  
She was entering the room as Scott was standing there, trembling with pent-up frustration_, wanting _Logan to respond. Needing that control back, that lifeline that made him leader, kept him from looking too closely at confusion and pain, kept him sane.  
With terrifying speed, Logan exploded from the shadows, and Ororo felt a cry of, "Logan! No!" torn from her throat.  
But the shorter man's claws were not extended. With incredible, feral grace, he slammed Scott into the wall, then forced him down, against the floor. Fangs touched his neck, held, refused to let go as Scott tried to turn his head and trigger a stunning optic blast.  
_"Scott! No!" _Ororo's voice was desperate as she recognized, suddenly, crazily, that if he did Logan would doubtless react even more violently.  
The mutant known as Cyclops tried to move his head, but Logan bit down tightly, drawing a thin rivulet of blood, shaking his head firmly enough to nearly cause whiplash. It was clear Scott was not to move.  
Scott refused to lower his red-visored gaze.  
Logan growled, low in this throat, a warning, harsh sound.  
"Logan, let go!" he ordered, but it came out a gasp.  
Another growl, another bone-rattling shake, less gentle this time.  
Ororo held her breath, not daring to speak as the silent battle of wills reached it's climax.  
Before, Logan would have simply walked away, cracked a joke, done _something_. But now he held the younger mutant's gaze with eyes of golden fire, all the games stripped away.  
Scott swallowed hard.  
Logan rumbled.  
Finally, almost painfully, Scott looked down.  
Immediately, he was released. Pinning the younger mutant with one hand, Logan licked the blood off his throat and gave a softer rumble, reassuring now.  
The battle was over, and Scott was released, and Logan was now in charge.  
That was all, and nothing else.  
Logan let him up.  
Scott tottered to his feet, staring with eyes clearly wide behind the ruby quartz.  
_ Cub_. Was that sensation-eddy of soft fur and mischeif, of not knowing one's place until it was given, of being young and uncertain and finally _defined _kind?  
Yes. Perhaps moreso than a frightened and desperately lonely boy being forced to become a leader. Losing himself in that. Having no other _identity _than that. And in the end, suffering for the lonliness that he could not put down because he did not know how.  
Even Scott felt it, as those golden eyes followed him, as a strange burden lifted from him, a tight knot beginning to uncoil in his soul.  
_ Beta_. came the swirling senstation-image-scent-thought. Of running free and being unfettered, while remaining part_. Lead_. A rumble of approval_. Well._  
Scott bolted out the door.  
But what Ororo saw on his face moved her deeply.  
Scott's haggard features had been marked with relived tears.


	5. With Naught But Fire

WITH NAUGHT BUT FIRE

Hank McCoy took the glasses off his nose and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen's letters and symbols were blurring together, and the ache of his eyes was making it almost impossible to concentrate.  
_ This disease is virulent, far too virulent_. he thought, wearily_. It has already started - three dead in Alberta, ten in Los Angeles, and those are only the reported figures. There are probably more, and spreading._  
His warning to the Center for Disease Control had been largely unanswered - such a disease was simply too horrific to even consider, and their frantic attempts to control and quarantine were too little, too late. Once the parasite entered the atmosphere as it had, it was simply a matter of time before the average human life expectancy would be reduced to mere weeks - and in more concentrated areas, days.  
The frightening - if not terrifying - aspect of parasite existing in every human gene had one extrordinary trait. It was a mutanegnic predator, a "learning" factory.  
He had underestimated the tiny creature's incredible resiliance - and adaptablity.  
It wasn't merely the activation of this microscopic assassin that was frightening, it was it's potential to become airborne, highly contaigious due to it's compatability.  
One cure, even one treatment, would become useless in only hours.  
It would quickly find the diseases virulent in areas viable food sources, rapidly growing in strength and virulence, geometrically, until only the immune mutant population survived.  
The first victims had died only hours after the tiny protezoec virus - called rather cynically the _x-o virus_, and the people tending them were already beginning to fall.  
In days, Los Angeles would lose half her population, Alberta suffering the same scant hours after the American City.  
By the end of the week, CDI would have no choice but to quarentine not simply Los Angeles but _all California_.  
Canada's rapid response to the virus had gained it days, but it too would find the medical facilites overwhelmed, the sick simply falling before the eyes of those dying of other disease and injury.  
Hank could not bear any more, and a sick sense of loss filled him as he buried his furred nose against his folded arms.  
And wept.

Ororo was seated on the floor in front of the restless Logan, who was slowly swirling finger-paints together with his fingers, eyes intent on his task.  
He looked up at her once, gaze flickering with amber and golden in the light.  
"You like blue? And yellow?"  
_ Sky. _Scent of clear-blowing wind, flickers of winter sky and gentle blues flickering on the ripple of a cool, deep brook_. Spark_. Eddy-sense of warmth and burning arcing down from the heavens, leaving crackling reds and golds, a den-warmth for sleep nearby.  
She blinked, still unaccustomed to the power of those powerful surges that filled the senses and pressed against the mind.  
Logan lifted a hand, batting her gently, a playful gesture.  
Ororo laughed softly, aware that her nose was now a unique swirl of blue-yellow.  
The golden eyes stared into her's, a firm and thoughtful gaze as he tilted his head back, drawing in air through his nose and clearly taking in the young woman's scent.  
_Sky. Free. Wind_. Flickered against her conciousness, a flicker of her face tilted back, rapt, eyes closed, as rain-drenched wind swirled her nightdress around her, far above the ground.  
Her dark, almond-brown skin hid the blush but not the rush of warm blood to her cheeks.  
His hand came up, gently, knuckles running slowly down her cheek, fingertips light against her neck as he - petted her. A reassuring, soft touch.  
Her skin seemed to spark with the lightning she knew so well, following the trail of his touch, as she stared up into his golden, wild, unfettered eyes.  
They seemed to reflect her back into her own conciousness, showing a young woman with snow-white hair, worn soft and free as the wind, eyes that flickered like the blues of the cloud-drenched sky. Skin the color of almonds, scented of faint pine and distant streams, of secret flights and laughter as she danced on air and water.  
She couldn't look away from that wild, honest gaze.  
Ororo managed to whisper, "L-l..." But his finger, oddly graceful but strong, touched her lips.  
_Quiet. Share. Now. _Soothing silence. Flicker of the comfort of the den, safety, calm.  
For the next hour, they simply sat together, sharing the silence of a dawning understanding.

The computer bleeped.  
Impossibly.  
A match.  
Hank sat up so fast that he knocked the mouse onto the floor, and extended a foot to whip it back up to a hand.  
There was a way to slow - slow, perhaps even stop, but only slow at the moment - the protozoic demon loose in every living thing.  
But the method made the blue-furred genius close his eyes in a different, more personal kind of pain.

"There is a way." Hank was telling a small gathering of the X-Men. Also present were Professor Xavier, Scott, and Jean. "But it is - very serious."  
"If there's a way, we have to do it!" Jean's voice carried the strength of the desperate.  
Well, that was fair.  
They were desperate.  
And running out of time.  
Hank put down the sheet of paper of Xavier, watched as understanding dawned.  
"Logan's immune system. We - use it to spread a carrier gene that will inhibit the growth of x-o. It is the only way, God help me. I have looked at this a thousand, ten thousand ways, and nothing else is even vaugely possible." A faint hope. "The Sh'iar?"  
"I have contacted them." whispered Xavier. "They are...very reluctant to dispatch any aid unless we can insure their safety from this virus, and we cannot. It would appear we are own our own."  
Jean looked distressed. "We have no other choice." she whispered.  
"But...what about Logan?" Scott brought them back to the team-mate they were still unable to reach.  
"The treatment would be - very difficult." Hank's head was bowed.  
Scott's gaze was full of anguish. "We can't just..."  
"If it is the entire human race, how can we hesitate?" Jean looked at Xavier for support.  
Xavier's lashes were wet with unshed tears, but he whispered, "We have no choice. May God have mercy on us all. There is no more time."

Ororo was in her room, reading, when she heard the screams.  
Horrible sounds, like throat-slit shrieks of a dying animal, one in horrible pain.  
Throwing on her robe she dashed downstairs, following the sounds, throwing open the MedLab door, and halting in face-numb horror.  
Jean's face was set, telekenetically forcing Logan into a life-support tube, tears on her cheeks, but exerting her power with fine control in attempts to control the wild thrashing of the Canadian mutant.  
Moments later, the oxygen mask snapped over his face and he was restrained with adamantium bands, life-support activated with a whining gurgle, and Xavier contiuned to regard the trapped man, clearly telepathically restraining him from harming himself.  
Hank's shoulders were shaking as he wept, forcing himself to hit the switch in front of him.  
Scott had to look away, tears tracing down his cheeks.  
The Wolverine screamed. Howled in agony, in terror.  
Wild images, of men with sharp things that smelled of smugness and blood, one scratching on a metal board, of pain - _PAIN! _- burning in his bones! No!  
_FIRE! PAIN_! the mental image-eddies were a shriek, claws of awareness slammed into a vunerable conciousness. Psycological agony, torture, words slamming into the wildly tottering mind.  
Awareness!  
MEMORY! It slammed into Logan with more force than any knife, any bullet, any violence.  
_ NO! NO! NO_! The negatives were frantic screeches, desperate attempts to hold onto himself.  
_ EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHH!!!!!_  
Mental and physical, the howl shook the mansion as machines took the one tiny portion of his cells that could slow the virus, slamming needles and shunts deep into the struggling body of the Wolverine.  
Pain. There was nothing but pain.  
The golden eyes were wild, then feral, then filled with rage and murderous _need_.  
Pack-betrayal.  
_ No pack. No pack. Lone. Lone._  
_ LONE! _A defiant eddy-sensation-swirl-shriek of utter denial, of complete withrawal.  
Ororo threw Jean aside, rushing to the tube, pressing her hand against the cold glass, screaming, "_HOW COULD YOU??!!!" _in a kind of insane rage she had never imagined.  
She stared into Logan's agonized eyes, seeing the torment, the agony experianced now and forced back into his awareness, all at once, all without the mercy of lost memories hiding the agony.  
His gaze saw her, wild and in pain and desperate, and she did not look away.  
_"Logan!" _she cried, unaware of the tears that welled from her eyes and fell like bitter rain.  
_Clouds. Free. Free. Free.... _Almost a moan, too much, too much pain. Too much fear. No more.  
The agonizing process took only another few minutes, but in Logan's mind, years of agony passed, all burning with agonizing power in his mind.  
With a gurgle, the liquid drained, the tube snapped open, disgorging the battered, empty-eyed Logan into Ororo's arms.  
Going down to kneel, the limp body in her arms, wrapping her arms around him protectively, she snarled furiously at Scott, who had started forward, so filled with unfamiliar rage that she could not speak for a moment.  
Looking into Logan's golden eyes, she saw emptiness.  
Just emptiness.  
The Wolverine had retreated to it's den.  
"Oh, Goddess." she whispered, holding him against her, letting his face drop to her shoulder.  
She looked up, eyes normally so white-blue that they seemed soft and calm as a summer sky, now sparked with golden-yellow, electric fury.  
"Get away. All of you. Get away _now._" she whispered.  
"Ororo...child..." began Xavier, hand outstretched to her, eyes pleading for an understanding she could not give.  
"No. All of you _GET OUT!_" She rocked Logan's unmoving, limp body against her. "He's finally safe. He's gone to a safe place, and I don't know what to do now."  
Only the pulse beating faintly in his neck proclaimed that the mutant known as Wolverine still lived, the faint breath was distant and almost inaudible.  
Ororo held him, heard the door close, knew the others were outside, sharing their tears with one another, finding strength and reassurance there.  
She stayed with Logan.  
No-one had offered that same gesture to him.  
And Ororo, Storm Goddess, mutant, Windrider, began to rock Logan unconciously, her shuddering voice singing softly, a song she had loved as a child. It came from somewhere deep within her, and she did not question it, only sang it to Logan with all her heart.

_You are my sunshine_  
_ My only sunshine_  
_ You make me happy_  
_ When skies are grey_  
_ You'll never know dear, how much I love you_  
_ Please don't take my sunshine away...._


	6. Standing With the Sky

STANDING WITH THE SKY

Ororo stayed with Logan all that night, but he never seemed to see her. His gaze was flat, empty, totally distant now.  
It was like looking into the retreating sun, seeing the light flow away as the darkness slid down, trying to lay claim to the warmth.  
The others stayed away.  
She knew they were ashamed, sorry, but that was not enough.  
Not now.  
Logan had not broken - if he had, there would be nothing but emptiness. Coldness. Instead there was flat distance, not complete loss.  
She prayed, enjoining the Goddess to give her strength and wisdom.  
Ororo saw eddies of pain flick dark in those eyes, now cooled to amber.  
Sitting there, holding his limp body against her, she raged inwardly, barely aware that outside, thunder cracked with that fury, the sky darkening, the rain coming down as if all the angels of heaven wept.  
She sang the same tune to him, seeing the tiniest flicker of awareness before his consciousness ducked back to safety. But she rocked him, crooned meaningless melodies, stroked his amniotic-fluid slick hair, tried to call him back.  
But there was no reply.  
Looking now into his face, seeing the closed eyes, the tawny skin, the sideburns and dark hair, she saw his intact body, but without the passion that burned so deeply within him.  
It was like looking into the face of darkness, seeing it's empty, shadowed eyes stare back.  
And the thought came to her that there had been no sunlight or snow, these last days. No warmth or scents to give depth and meaning to Logan's world, only metal and the blandly gray jumpsuit that must have been a hardship in it's laundered scents and empty meaning.  
It must be. The mansion was a dead thing to him, the wood flat and featureless, the colors without vibrancy. Trapped now, caged, and tormented, how could he ever find his way back?  
No, that was not it.  
_Why _would he find his way back?  
What was waiting?  
The last, final betrayal.  
The terrible realization that he could not trust the very ones he had begun to rely on.  
Being locked in a metal room, fed food that must smell of death and machines, how long until his body withered away? Would his regenerative factor keep him alive, mind trapped, indomitable soul smothered, in some soulless, featureless cage the rest of his life?  
No.  
_No!_  
Ororo made a decision then, one that she knew would mean stepping onto a new path.  
She stroked his hair, murmured, as she managed to draw him to his feet.  
Surprisingly he stayed there, empty eyes disinterested, simply standing there, not vivid, not alive, not _Logan._  
Just a shell.  
She took his hand, coaxed him out the door, watching the hallway with heart beating in her throat.  
Back to her room?  
No time.  
She coaxed him along, feeling the tread of muscles that made him silent even now.  
He did not respond to anything outside the simplicity of placing one foot in front of the other.  
Ororo felt the tug of tears, but forced them down.  
"Logan." she soothed, stroking his arm, keeping him beside her as she walked, hand threaded through his.  
Xavier was sleeping, a fitful sleep, and Jean had finally gone to bed, but Scott and Hank were awake, obviously grieving, in shock, uncertain.  
Ororo guided Logan to the elevator, felt his hands tense, muscles rippling, aching to extend his claws, as the vehicle suddenly dropped, registering as change in his consciousness.  
She stared at him, speaking softly, soothingly, about her plan, the need to leave.  
The only eddy-sensation-thought Ororo received was brief, so yearning that it hurt.  
_ Free_. Memories of the muscles flowing in a run, the leaps from place to place, seeing the golden fire in the sky and the silver that took it's place in the night, bringing song and the hunt.  
To the elevator.  
Logan's eyes flickered with something, just briefly, but his claws did not come out to tear into the young woman's hands.  
Down.

The Blackbird.  
A combination of Terran and Sh'iar technology, one of the most advanced aircraft in existence on the planet.  
Ororo helped Logan up the ramp, though at first he balked, clearly not sure, before emptiness returned.  
Showing him the safety of the plane involved going in, allowing him to draw a scent, then spending precious minutes coaxing him into a seat, patting his hands gently as she wrapped the buckles gently around him.  
She had stopped for only two small objects, which she had to work to get Logan to swallow.  
He sniffed it, rumbled, awareness coming and going, dangerously fragile.  
"It's good. See, Ill swallow mine." Ororo showed him, and saw his eyes swing toward her, still dark, so full of pain and the shattered awareness that only faintly flickered.  
One of Hank's experiments, the tiny little chips sat in a sugar pill, but they performed an invaluable service - they were anti-mutant-detection chips, two of the five in existence.  
Her's tasted sweet, but it was hard to swallow despite herself, in a throat so very dry.  
Buckling herself in, she refused to think of the mansion she was leaving, the life that had been her's. Sharing in a dream. The bonds of family.  
But not now.  
Perhaps never again.  
Wrapping the buckles around herself, she hot-keyed the jet into action, feeling the flare of it's engine as it rocketed forward and out of the hidden bay. In a moment, they were skyborne - and out of the X-Men's reach.

Logan remained slumped in his seat, eyes showing no reaction at all as the jet's pulses of energy deflected sensors of all kinds, after he had stiffened briefly at the odd sounds.  
_Bird. _was the pulse-flicker, confusion at the scents of metal and ozone, and he had almost tried to claw out.  
"Logan, it's all right." she comforted, putting a hand on his.  
Suddenly, she got an idea.  
Shutting down the second station's flight ability, she activated the lights and turned on the teaching mode.  
Flickering lights and the sensation of clicking buttons seemed to hold his interest until he finally assumed his current pose and again faded into his state of unawareness.  
She hoped he would rest, the flight was obviously trying on his senses.  
For Ororo had a very special place in mind to land.  
It took less than an hour, and she was grateful for the telepathic shields she had erected over her career as an X-Man. She did not answer the first concerned then frantic calls from both Jean and Xavier, she simply refused to acknowledge them in any way, keeping the shields tight and flat, showing nothing.  
The wheels bumped against the ground.  
Unbuckling Logan was easier than she had hoped, and she tapped in the commands to the autopilot while she loosed herself.  
Exiting, she heard the excited voices and the language of her childhood, reassuring sounds, as she released Logan.  
He didn't move.  
"Please, Logan." she coaxed, and finally he rose, following her with raw, unsteady steps.  
Soon the steps retracted and the great black jet rose soundlessly into the night sky, autopilot taking it back to base.  
She went out to speak to the people, aware that Logan would likely bolt or attack if exposed suddenly to the myriad scents and sounds of people again.  
"Windrider!" came the cry, one of joy, as she summoned a gentle, soothing breeze, the beginning of a tender rain.  
But she spoke quietly to the people, aware of Logan's utter withdrawal, and walked back to him.  
"It is safe, Logan. This place is my home." Ororo told him, hand on his arm.  
His muscles rippled, claws popping, clearly he was ready to fight or flee.  
She caressed his wrist until the claws retracted, murmuring soothingly. He closed his eyes, breathing, scenting, deciding on whether this place was more than the horrible _cage _- wild sensation-ripple of fear-pain-horror - NO! NO CAGE! NO! - of the other place.  
Logan stirred suddenly, uttering a low, incomprehensible sound.  
His eyes had opened, but that horrible flatness was gone.  
He glanced around with all the curiosity of a child, expression somehow thoughtful as he sniffed the air, lifting his head to consider his new surroundings.  
Eddy-sensation of cleanness, of distant flowers and flowing wind, dust and wind and sun. Scent of water nearby, rocks rich with age and steadiness.  
For no young land was this, rather a primal and untamed world born of the union between earth and wind, sun and water.  
Ororo looked up at the distant peak of Kilimanjaro, feeling Logan's tentative awareness beside her, his disconnection still present, but awareness there, edging the amber back, slowly, back toward the golden richness only his gaze could contain.  
Yes, this was home.  
The grove she had so loved was still there, denser and richer, and she hoped to let Logan touch it, experience it, once more fill his senses with the living world.  
It would, without a doubt, take time, perhaps a long time.  
But she was determined.  
Again, she looked back toward the great peak, feeling a strong sense of her Africa lovingly welcoming her home, but what surprised her was the equally strong sense it extending arms toward the still only semi-conscious Logan, offering comfort and home to him as well.  
Perhaps Xavier would come again, try to take her from this holy place, ancient beyond civilization's knowing, but not this time.  
She was the Windrider again, Storm, Ororo, free of the need to be among the saviors of the world, the need to fight and struggle with a world gone mad.  
This was home.  
That, at least, she could give Logan.  
Time for him to be Logan, and the Wolverine, both, free of judgment or duress.  
For Africa sang it's own song, so different from busy, frantic-paced America, a deep, rich lullaby to comfort souls and heal both the mind and body.  
Yes, she would once more be an incarnation of the Goddess for her people, who had not given up the simple, ancient ways, in favor of the modern.  
Perhaps Logan would see the children not crave the electronic music dispensed from machines, but the songs and rich history of their elders, growing in the sense of community and inner strength, in union and respect with Mother Africa.  
Perhaps he could heal here - but even if he never returned as the man she had known, he would grow, she prayed.  
Perhaps Africa would sing her sweet lullaby to him and set him free.  
His eyes were shadowed again, like bruises forming on the sun.  
She stroked his shoulder until he looked up at Kilimanjaro.  
And she whispered one sentence to him.  
"That is your father."  
Logan seemed to see the ancient mountain, just for that moment, as the sun kissed it tenderly before laying herself to sleep near it's base, filling the sky with perfect fire and earth, wind and water, fluttering wildly in the sky for the man who could see so deeply as he.  
She stood next to him while he stood there, and inwardly rejoiced when he turned to follow her.  
Yes.  
This was _home._


	7. Song of Stone

SONG OF STONE

The grove Ororo had loved so still flourished near the small lake, and she smiled at the sight of it. This was her home, the home of her heart, the home that had nurtured her soul.  
Logan was crouched next to the lake, watching ripples flow as he touched the water, expression flickering briefly to awareness then to silence.  
She watched him, silent and concerned.  
_Cool. Comfort. Deep. _swirl-eddied the thought-images suddenly, of water deep and cool, breathing down deep in a way that showed only dimly on the surface. A drink to soothe after the long hunts, to splash on soreness after the need for blood and claws.  
Africa embraced Logan, and for a moment, golden awareness flickered in his deep eyes before once more darkening to hidden ambers.  
Ororo knelt beside him, gently took his hand, pressing it into the soft solidness of the earth.  
His gaze flickered upwards, meeting her's for an instant, and she said softly, "Earth."  
Logan's head cocked to one side as image-eddy-thoughts swirled. _Cool. Dark. Comfort. _he drew his fingers into the moist earth, focused on whatever internal need drove him.  
The water lapped gently against the shore, and Ororo watched Logan silently, feeling a surge of concern rise in her throat. But also - there was a sense of relief.  
For Africa not only embraced Logan, it seemed to soothe his tormented mind in a way not even his native Canada could.  
Careful not to disturb his concentration, Ororo sat down next to Logan, watching silently as he moved his hands with silent focus, digging his fingers into the loam.  
_Cool. Comfort. _The swirl-emotion-thoughts were a struggle to make a connection.  
Careful to not make any sudden moves, Ororo spoke softly. "You feel the call of the soil, Logan?" she half-asked. More, it was to speak to him, keep him _there, _rather than the internal hell he had suffered.  
_Comfort. Deep. Cool. _His eyes flicked upwards, golden flickering awareness in the amber.  
She stayed absolutely still.  
Logan looked back down at the water, his brow furrowed with concentration.  
_Hear. Listen. Hear. _The eddies of that thought were almost wistful.  
"What do you hear, Logan?" Ororo said his name as often as she could, hoping that he would sieze upon his identity, find his way back to it.  
Yet in a tiny, guilty corner of her mind she wondered how he would be if he did not.  
He lifted his head, staring across the lake, then shifted his weight to regard the distant mountians, the softly wind-blowing plains.  
_Song. Hear. Listen._  
Ororo moved a bit closer, rested a gentle hand on his forearm.  
The muscles tensed only slightly, then relaxed as he regarded her.  
Amber in his eyes. Golden. Amber.  
_Need. Listen. Wait._  
She spoke gently, responding to the urgancy in his voice. "I will speak to the tribe, Logan. After the rains come..."  
_Hunt. _There was another need, the need for sustanance but also the raw, primal force of den-territory and defense, safety and establishing one's place.  
Ororo saw the brief glint of fangs, the ripple and flow of muscles as Logan rose with lion's grace to his feet. His claws extended, then retracted, a gesture of anticipation.  
_ Need. Hunt. Back. Soon_. the eddies swirled, and Logan's gaze was drawn once more to the plains.  
"Logan?" Ororo watched him as he scented the air, turning his eyes to her momentarily, then back to the open the distant, moving herds and tan-brown, dappled plains.  
"Be careful." the Windrider whispered.  
But he was gone.

Moving swiftly and gracefully along the edge of the plain, Logan kept low to the ground, exulting in the honest scent of his surroundings.  
He tossed the constricting bonds that held to his chest to the ground, allowing the soft breeze to caress his skin, telling him tales of what surrounded him.  
_ Bands across the chest, pain, fear..._  
He snarled, extending his claws and slashing angrily at the fragment-memory. The image angered and puzzled him, whirring in his head like angry bees, forcing Logan to shake his head violently to clear it.  
Crouching down, he saw the pushing, shoving, strong-smelling brown beasts that huddled together.  
Then he scented the stealthily moving hunters closing downwind.  
Masked by the gently waving, high golden grass - which smelled dry and brittle - the four-legged hunters were light and tawny, moving with elegent danger. Their stalk was patient, slow, for although the prey was plodding and moved almost clumsily, sheer size and number worked against predation.  
Logan's fangs showed in a dangerous snarl. His prey_! His!  
_  
All she could do was hold his hand while the world went mad.  
The sky was the color of bloodstained tears, and the grinding whirrs of those _- things _- had finally faded. Even trees crunched beneath the metal, but they passed by.  
Passing from pallet to pallet, she touched each body, trying to urge life back into Scott's cooling skin. He looked so young then, not much older than her, as though death leeched any vibrancy, any age, from his form.  
He was the third one.  
Jean was kneeling next to him, green eyes flat and dead as she tried to comprehend the enormity of what she had just lost. She would never understand. Never recover.  
Half of her was gone.  
She moved with well-trained silence to the side of the room where Nathan and Stryfe lay only feet apart. Somehow, in the end, they found that they could understand one another better as allies than enemies.  
Of course, they hadn't ever told her the whole story, but that didn't matter. She felt them touch minds, more like twins than eternal foes, in a kind of bewildered confusion, hanging onto one another, trying to make sense of this _dying_, but they faded peacefully away.  
There was a distant _boom_! and plaster, along with alarming shards of metal, tumbled to the floor.  
"Jeannie's gone." The voice was a harsh rasp as she moved back to her patient.  
And she was.  
The green eyes that had once held the Phoenix's fire were now dead, empty, lifeless.  
Another ka-_thoom_! and she winced.  
"Yer gonna do it again, ain'tcha?" It was only half a question.  
"I not know_, mon ami_." came the weary reply. "Not sure how dis work - maybe I make worse."  
"Nah, this's been a long time in comin'." A painful, hacking cough, and blood oozed from his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. "It was too far 'long, you said, and you were right."  
A half-guilty silence.  
"Lissen, kid, pass me that bundle - no, that'n." He grinned, almost ghoulishly, at the reflexive balling of her fist at the "kid" comment. "Thanks." His eyes pierced her. "Now get outta here while ya can."  
"I t'ink I could take some'a ya..."  
"Nah, kid. Ain't no point. Now get goin'."  
"What dat?" she indicated the bundle he was unwrapping.  
"Git." but it was fond.  
Eyes closed, she clenched her fists, and suddenly...just wasn't there.  
With reverent fingers, Logan ran his fingers up the hilt of the ancient _katana, _thinking_, Mariko..._  
And plunged it into his abdomen, wrenching it left, right, and up before unconciounsness floated up to catch him.  
But her arms caught him then, and the air was filled with crysanthumums....

Logan kept low to the ground, carefully watching the herd. He had already rolled several times in the light-coating, warm dirt to mute his scent, and now was carefully choosing his prey.  
The large bull was dismissed as a target - he needed something that could be dragged back to the den, and it was far too large.  
Flies buzzed and darted, but he ignored them, aware that the four-legged hunters had stopped a few yards off. One, the lead female, had her muscles bunched under her, placing each velvet paw precicely, tasting the wind as she guided the lesser members of her pride forward.  
He bared his fangs in irritation, unsheathing his claws, calculating the distance between the young male he had selected and himself.  
The other hunters wisely stayed back, and Logan suddenly charged into the herd with a roar, sending the panicked grazers running in all directions. Leaping on his target, he tightened his arms around the thick neck, bit down hard as he slashed with his claws, bringing it down, held on until life twitched loose through it's absurdly spindly legs.  
Still tasting the sweet-rock-fire taste of blood in his mouth and feeling the triumph of his hunt, Logan tilted back his head and howled his victory to the azure, soft sky.  
Then, he settled into feeding.  
The lead female came close, growling, seeing this two-leg as another weak hunter that needed false claws to make the kill, slashed at him, challenging his right to the kill.  
Logan punched her hard in the face, heard a yowl of suprise, snarled a warning.  
She circled him, clearly not knowing what to make of this odd thing that had entered her pride's territotry.  
He ignored her, relishing the rich, smooth taste of the kill's warm liver, still full of it's now-fled life's blood.  
A hiss, an experimental bat of a paw, claws extended.  
Logan blocked it effortlessly, grabbed the female by the ears, snarled in her face.  
"Mine!" he growled, feeling the odd imparitive of the word.  
The green-gold eyes dialated, fangs were bared, and the age-old ritual of the staredown began.  
Logan forced her gaze away with only his will.  
_ Huge form, cat-like fur, savage, cruel, claws_....NO!  
He shook his head at the strange feeling of not-pack kill-territory that rose, then was overwhelmed with _wrongness _to be either cut out or cut down. Then he shoved the strange image away and returned to feeding.  
With a growl, the lead female led two of her three underlings away.  
One remained, and Logan ignored her for a time.  
Then he glanced back.  
The tawny-furred creature was submissive, making herself as small as possible, clearly hoping for scraps. Her ribs were clearly visible, as were cuts and welts.  
_ Low in pack_. he thought.  
And then he saw the evidence of cubs.  
Out of season? Against the will of lead-female? The young one was lucky to be alive.  
He rumbled to himself, then cut loose a good portion, uttering a soothing sound, extending his bloody hand, meat dripping warm fluid into the dirt.  
Timidly, the young female edged forward, ears down to show her submission, tail almost dragging the ground.  
Logan made another encouraging sound, and felt her teeth close on his offering, carefully.  
He made an approving noise, and the female backed away.  
When she left, he ate his fill, then rose and stretched.  
Sniffing the air, he found himself following the low-ranked lioness, trailing her to the edge of the plains, then freezing.  
He heard strange sounds when he came to the rocks, sounds that confused but did not frighten him. Sounds that were...were almost familiar. Flickers of images, of movement and life and growth - no - mustn't...  
Confusion.  
Mustn't?  
Logan found the young female's den, and the two squalling cubs she had fought the odds to keep alive. They were still young, eyes barely open, as they wobbled about.  
Uttering a low chuffing sound, Logan picked up one cub, then the other.  
One was strange-colored.  
No-color.  
White.  
He sniffed it, recieving a purr for his efforts.  
The female rose, looking alarmed.  
He started for the tiny nook's entrance, smiled ferally when she began to follow him.  
Then he glanced up, seeing the graying clouds gathering, the soft beat of thunder.  
_ Rain. Cool_. He recognized the coming of this, and led the nervous young female down the ridge.  
Logan looked into those green-gold eyes.  
_ Green-growth. Cool. Water. Den. Safe_. The image-thoughts were patient. It took several times before he knew she understood.  
But he glanced back at the stones.  
Hearing them.  
Hearing....something.


	8. The Moon Unpaled

THE MOON UNPALED

Ororo woke to a dampness on her cheek, unable to recall exactly when she had drifted off.  
She looked up into eyes as blue as sun-softened ice, set in a furry white face almost comical in it's quizzical expression.  
"A lion cub?" she said aloud, sitting up slowly.  
Scrawny and pathetic, a larger cat, fur a faded tawny, lay nearby, another cub curled between it's paws. As was a large chunk of red meat, well-gnawed and little more than bone remains.  
_Hunger. Pain. No place. _The eddy-swirl of thought came from above her and to the left.  
Turning her head, she could just make out Logan's outline, perched high in a huge tree's boughs.  
"Logan." she murmered, softly, in greeting, but a low rumble was her only reply.  
_Feed. Make strong. Grow. _was the reply, focused on the rolling, squealing cubs and their mother.  
"They are lions, Logan." she tried to communicate her concern. "The villigers fear them."  
_Pack. No two-leg scent. _The communication ended as the feral mutant settled in to feed.  
Ororo sighed to herself, but had to admit - the two lion kittens were absolutely adorable.

Logan forced the female to meet his gaze, fangs showing, up in a crouch. When she tried to back away timidly, he patiently grabed one paw and pressed lightly, extending her claws.  
She blinked.  
He circled again, coming in from the left, pounce-attacking, shoving at her shoulder.  
The lioness squeeked in suprise, rolling to the left, dewclaws digging in to hold her place.  
Again, circling. Again, a pounce.  
The female scrambled out from under the mutant, ears back in confusion.  
Logan let her know by scent and movement that she was becoming stronger, that she was worthy of her cubs. He padded back and forth, letting her see his movements, restless and leonine.  
Questioningly, the female rubbed against him, not understanding his disquiet.  
_Hunt. Moon-hunt. _Logan forged the connection between their conciousnesses. The female understood, there would be food brought back by her own claws, to the milk-fangs of her cubs.  
She communicated her concern of invading pride-territory.  
_Mine! _Logan's hackles rose. _Mine. Hunt moon-rising._  
And he moved away to flow up into the trees, a facility the female had not quite mastered.  
The sun flickered down, and she curled up around her squirming young for a good rest before the hunt began.

Ororo watched Logan silently, seeing the soft moonlight ripple over his skin. He was rousing, stretching with the unabashed sensuality of a great hunting cat.  
His yawn revealed his canines, pointed and strong, a part of his arsenal he rarely showed.  
The lioness was on her feet, sniffing each of her cubs, licking their coats to comfort them. Her green-gold eyes regarded the human female uncertainly.  
Herself, Ororo wondered how Logan had brought the great cat down from the plains. Lions were known to be dangerous, extremely quixotic, and never tamable by her people.  
Logan uttered a low growl and the lioness moved to his side, making herself kitten-small.  
He ruffled her fur, giving a low rumble, and looked back at Ororo.  
_ Hunt. Den. Safe. Stay_. Ripples of thought-image, of the night dangerous. There was a faint flicker of golden in his eyes, as if he struggled a moment with inner disquiet, a hiss of annoyance, then more firmly_, Safe. Stay. Den_. Soothing darkness, plants, scents of flowers and cool water.  
Ororo wasn't exactly sure why, but she was not annoyed by this protectiveness.  
On the contrary.  
She was touched.

Unfettered by lion-pride-following, Logan and the lioness made their way to the plains with graceful speed. It was, in the mutant's mind, time to teach the female to hunt.  
The lead female had not, for whatever reason, so he would.  
He popped his claws, lowering himself down in the swaying, high grass, tugging on his companion's ear to bring her to his level.  
_ Stalk_. Image-sensation of crouch-moving through the stalks of grass, nose catching scent-of-prey, eyes forward but moving, ears up and hearing sounds of movement, of challenge.  
She watched him, hesitant. All her life she had been forced to submit. Now, she was being forced to unlearn those harsh lessons.  
Logan crept forward until he saw his target, a long, graceful creature with horns curving upwards.  
He pushed the lioness head up until she saw the horns.  
_ Danger. Tear. _Letting her sense-see the danger of being torn open by those lowered prongs.  
_ Hunt_? The puzzled question was clear now, and Logan beared his teeth in agreement.  
_ Slow_. He told her, moving to the left, sniffing the air. Downwind. Good.  
Working with excruciating care, the two hunters manuvered until the antelope was between them.  
_ Pounce_! commanded Logan, charging from the brush, herding the suddenly-panicked prey toward the waiting lioness, who leapt from her hiding place, claws and fangs connecting with the exposed neck as her companion landed on the struggling equine's back, fangs sinking into flesh while claws flashed.  
Logan did not release his grip until the prey stopped it's futile kicking.  
The lioness moved off as he cut loose a share, then motioned her over.  
He growled permission - there was plenty.  
They fed contentedly, as the moon's soft light danced around them.

Ororo was getting worried _- very _worried. Though her telepathic shields held, she was well-aware of the attempts at contact. The last one had mentioned an attempt to find them, something she was certain she did _not _want.  
When Logan and the lioness returned, they were blood-splattered and dragging the remains of a dead antelope.  
Normally, Ororo would have been grief-stricken to see such an animal dead, torn as it was.  
Yet now, seeing Logan expertly butchering it, passing a huge chunk to the purring lioness, licking his lips absently of the blood on them, she found it - oddly erotic.  
Which almost lead to a panic-attack.  
Erotic? Logan was effectively insane, suffering and she...  
What?  
Ororo watched as he worked, and was startled when he uttered a soothing rumble, a chunk of meat extended toward her, blood dripping onto the damp earth.  
"I...Logan...?" she managed, kneeling next to him, in an effort to compose herself.  
_ Food. Eat_. came the response, gold-flecked eyes seeming to glow. Sensation of the satisfaction of fangs tearing meat, feeding. Flicks of the charge toward the prey, the feel of it's stuggles, the taste of fresh blood, realness to the food, not processed illusion.  
She hesitated. Meat was not something she had enjoyed greatly, though she was not a vegetarian.  
It simply was not her food of choice.  
Now, in the wilds of Africa, the mutant known as Storm took a small piece and obligingly placed it in her mouth. She had hardened her stomach, fearing that she would be unable to hold it down.  
Suprisingly, it wasn't it's taste that affected her.  
It was the fact that it was _Logan's _kill. Dead, yes, but honest in the reason for it. Not killed for pleasure - though the hunt _brought _pleasure, it was not _for _pleasure - but for sustenance and growth. Renewal, as the rains were for the earth, as fire was for the field.  
She stared at him a moment, then thought wildly_, Oh, Logan, what are you doing to me_?  
The moon, pale no more, rose higher, silent and radiant.


	9. Sing the Heavens Down

SING THE HEAVENS DOWN

Logan bounded through the underbrush with the grace and speed of one of the antelope he was scent-trailing. Almost on all fours, he felt the soft caress of the wind along his fur, heard the faint heartbeat of the earth, smelled the distant dampness of the sky.  
He needed the passion of the running, the feeling of fire in his veins.  
It was the distant rocks that made him slow, finally coming to a halt.  
While he enjoyed the faint, flowing sounds that emerged from the strange deep-rock-place when he approached it, it also gnawed at his consciousness, sending him back to the border of the area.  
For an hour he stalked the perimeter, trying to identify the source of his disquiet, but in the end, he turned to crouch on a ledge, watching as the herd of prey moved past his perch.  
The scent of crumbled eternity floated gently across his senses, and he turned his head toward the tall rocks that seemed to be standing side by side.  
Music. Strange-almost-sense. Real but - strange.  
Logan skirted the edge of the sound-strangeness, claws extended, fangs unconsciously bared in warning as he moved around the rocks.  
Near the two tall together-stones, the music was strongest.  
Not louder, but stronger.  
This was - strange.  
Strange-not-dangerous.  
Not yet.  
He sniffed the air, scenting solidness and clean sky-wind, but the flecks of those tones continued, flickering around his awareness.  
Logan growled, leaping from the ledge and making his way with sure, feline grace down the side of the ancient cliff.  
_Den. Rest. Scent-think. Sound-think. _he decided, and began the journey back to the grove.

She appeared in the middle of blue.  
In an absent sort of way, she noticed it was beautiful before gravity kicked in and she began to plummet toward the ground with an outraged yowl.  
Frantic flapping of arms and a last-minute memory -_concentrate - _had her halt suddenly, but her ankle slammed painfully into the rock, eliciting a yelp and a flurry of inventive curses in Acadian.  
Trying to rise, she hissed in frustration as the swelling extremity refused to hold her weight.  
_Some superhero I turn out to be. _she snarled at herself. _Ow! Damnez-le! Dat hurt!_  
Grumbling at the preposterousness of this indignity, she managed to pull a knife from her belt, cut a strip from the battered shirt she was wearing, and wrap her - as her agile fingers told her - broken ankle into the matching boot.  
Lifting a staff almost as long as her body, the girl leaned heavily on it, taking an experimental step.  
The pain was sharp, grinding, but already receding to a repressible ache.  
_Well, dis do-able. _she thought, determinedly. _Get to de right spot, help, den get home. _She took a step toward the distant rock outcroppings.  
_Ow.  
_  
Logan prowled the edge of the grove, finally settling in a crouch not far from Ororo.  
She looked up at him, smiling, then saw the strange expression on the feral mutant's face.  
"Logan?" the weather mutant said, her voice gentle and soothing. "Is something wrong?"  
_ Stone. _A low growl, sharp quick movement of his head. _Music. _His gaze steadied, piercing her with it's confusion. _Song change. _He began to pace, eyes on the distant plain. _Strange scent-hear. Strange. _He emphasized.  
"Music?" Ororo rose to gently rest a hand on his forearm, aware of the restlessness of his movements, the sharp edge to his body language. "Logan? What music?"  
He met her gaze. Flicker of gold. Amber fire.  
_Rock. Scent-change. Strange. Music. Hear-change. Strange. _The eddy-whirl of images included the image of solid-ground-rising, strong solidness, sharp scent-image of ancient rock split yet united. Yet...  
Yet.  
Music. Sound. Tones of voice rising and falling in a strange tongue that should - _should - _be understood. Thought-sound-strangeness.  
The lioness edged close to them, uttering a soft sound of concern as Logan ruffed her shoulder- fur, eyes on Ororo.  
Puzzled, she spoke carefully. "Where, Logan?"  
_ Hunt-territory_. The scent of rock-tinted-liquid, the chase, the kill, the feeding - the stones in the territory Logan claimed.  
He growled, shaking his head to clear it.  
Ororo reached out, gently resting a hand on his shoulder, feeling tension there, the bunched muscles ready to move at any moment.  
Yet his gaze came up, meeting her's with an open frankness despite those hidden depths, and she decided that tomorrow she would go into the village and speak with the elders.

When Remy came home to the mansion, the first thing he noticed was the aura of deep misery. That alone didn't surprise him - the X-Men could generate enough angst to write a psychological treatise on - but it was the way that even Scott couldn't quite meet his eyes, the way Hank's gaze slid away when he banged in with his hearty Cajun hellos.  
It was compounded by Kurt being there for a visit - for some strange reason, everyone was tiptoeing around the black-furred mutant as though they feared he might hear their very thoughts.  
Finally, after accidentally walloping Cyclops over the head in a Danger Room exercise he should have known by heart, the New Orleans-raised mutant decided to find out what he'd missed.  
_"Mon ami_, is it jus' Gambit or is de whole mansion filled wit de angst?" he asked Kurt, as they raided the refrigerator.  
Yellow-gold eyes blinked at him a moment, then the gentle, demonic-appearing mutant nodded. _"Ja_. There is too much sadness here, even for normal." he said, his German accent muted by years among the X-Men but still as distinctive as Remy's own Louisiana drawl.  
"An' even de Fearless Leader not wanna talk 'bout it." observed Remy, seating himself at the table and taking a sip of what the other members of the group called "Louisiana Mud" - a coffee-based liquid that was so caffeinated it could keep even the mild-tempered Hank wired for several days.  
_"Ja_." nodded the German mutant, wrapping his tail absently around a ceiling beam and dangling there as he drank his own orange juice.  
"I say we go fin' out what happened_, oui_?"  
Kurt smiled, fangs glinting in the light. "I am with you_, mien freund_."

Step.  
Drag.  
Step....  
_ Owwww!_  
She finally had to take a break, and reluctantly admit to herself that Africa was much bigger than she'd expected.  
Rummaging in her backpack, she found her precious sunglasses and perched them on her nose, now able to watch the wildlife without fear of sun-blindness.  
From her studies, she could identify several of the creatures she saw, but seeing life moving over the savannah was a bit different than looking up geneses in a book.  
_ Big shock_. she snorted, annoyed with herself.  
Her ankle ached, and she examined it again, fingers checking the most sore points, but there was no sign of anything that would be permanent.  
Painful, yes. Permanent, no.  
She spent an hour or so recovering, then doggedly forced herself to her feet and toward the place she had heard tales about but never seen - a beautiful grove.  
It might take some time, but she'd get there.  
She was _not _going to give up.

When Remy and Kurt saw the taped footage of Logan's madness, and subsequent use as a temporary cure, at first they could only stare in a kind of horrified fascination.  
The same type of fascination that led people to look at accidents - it was terrifying, but hard to look away from.  
Finally, it was Kurt who whispered_, "Mien Gott_. Logan." Tears were on his cheeks, tears of pain and horror, but not blame. That wasn't in Kurt's nature, to blame or hate.  
"Logan." confirmed Remy, voice shaky despite himself. Though he often went out of his way to appear nonchalant, he felt a bond with the gruff Canadian, a closeness he didn't speak of or show often. Logan was more than just a friend to him - he was like an older brother, and he was shocked and horrified at the thought of him insane and lost to them.  
"Kurt, de X-Men not go find him yet_, oui_?"  
"Not yet." said Kurt, reaching over to turn off the tape.  
"Den we go."  
"What?" Kurt turned toward his friend, expression startled.  
_"Oui_. We not there when dis all happen, maybe he not - 'void us."  
Kurt stared at Remy a long moment, just long enough for the door to open and Rogue to stick her head in the door. "What are you two up tah?" she asked, tone more playful than accusatory.  
"We jus' talkin'." Remy replied, trying to hide the image before the young woman could see it, but her gaze saw the last image, of Logan's slumped body against Ororo, and she came fully in the room.  
"What happened to Wolvie?" she demanded, a determined spark in her eyes.  
_"Chere_, I not think...." began Remy.  
Rogue rewound the tape, eyes getting bigger and filling with tears before she finally turned it off. "Remy - don't protect me. What happened?" her voice was firm, determined.  
Remy and Kurt glanced at one another, then the Cajun answered, in a low, careful voice, "He go mad. An' 'Ro take him."  
"And you're gonna find him, and her, right?"  
"Dat de plan." admitted Remy, knowing it was useless to try to hide his intentions when Rogue was in this frame of mind.  
"I'm comin' with ya."  
Remy stared at her, and Kurt smiled slightly, nodding.  
"Den we better get t' work_, chere_." he replied, his night-and-crimson eyes taking on a determined glow. "We go t'night."


	10. Bonds Even Though

BONDS EVEN THOUGH

Logan liked the trees.  
Even if he wasn't quite sure why, they were a comfort, and he preferred to sleep the day away in a kind of natural cavern made by the massive merged roots of several of the wavy stalks than out in the open, where the sun revealed too much, yet often, nothing.  
The scents were soothing, as was the soft coolness on his skin.  
Curled comfortably in his den-within-a-den, he floated between sleep and wakefulness, not dreaming, senses still alert, hearing distant sounds of cub-wrestling and the nips of their milk-teeth, the long-suffering sigh of their doting mother, the rustle-sweep of distant leaves.  
He rolled to his stomach, stretching his legs out, pillowing his head on his folded arms.  
Image-scent-hearing of sweet orchid and soft winds, of warm almonds and honey. The tang of sharp sky-light and the softness of soothing wind-water.  
It was a comfort-scent, yes, but more, it was a scent that facinated him.  
Turning again, he glanced out of a break in the roots, seeing the softly lapping water of the small lake. He stretched, yawning.  
Night was approaching, and he needed to clean himself, to dull scent-voice that would warn the prey of his approach.  
Ducking out of his dwelling, he loped to the edge of the lake, stretching full up on his toes as he began to slither out of his pants, noticing absently the confining nature of the garmet as he kicked it to the side.

Ororo smiled at the shouting children laughing and running past her as she entered the village.  
Under the gentle, softly swaying shadows of a large tree, the elders of the tribe and village were gathered to discuss matters of importance.  
As she waited quietly, listening to the soft, patient tones of their voices and the reasoned rythem of their arguments before approaching, the weather mutant accepted a cheerfully offered gift of vegetables and fruit from a few of the tribesfolk, who were obviously delighted at her return to them.  
Ororo's smile and gentle regality soon brought a gathering of those she considered her children to her side, where she complimented the efforts of the tribesfolk, hugged the delighted youngsters who danced around her, and regarded the new dwellings with frank admiration.  
The tribe was prospering, to her delight, but it was clear that she was warmly welcome to the village she now realized how much she had missed.  
By the time she returned to the elders' meeting, they were sipping cool water and clearly at a lull in their discussions.  
"I would like to ask for your wisdom, elders." Ororo said, speaking with the serenity and determination of the storm goddess she had taken the mantle of, as she stepped forward.  
"Please, come." said the eldest of them, ancient Mopati. So old, no-one remembered his birth, only his courage in the hunt and his strength of character. "How may we offer aid to the Lady of the Skies?" His voice was soft and calm, almost lyrical. Known as the Helper, and the Keeper of Memories, Mopati was the most respected voice among the tribe.  
"I have ," she began carefully, "who claims to hear the song of stones, out on the savannah."  
The chief, Ndulu, turned to stare intently at the young woman. "This companion hears the stone's call?" he asked, leaning slightly forward. The others had become silent, glancing at one another, then at Mopati, who was as calm and enegmatic as ever.  
Taken aback by the intensity of the elder's tone, Ororo nodded, her eyes flickering with startlement. Did Logan's claim have a literal base in fact? She had trully belived it to be allegorical, symbolic in some way.  
"It belongs to the old tales, Windrider." said Mopati, softly, attacting Ororo's full attention. "Yet it is part of the present as well."  
Ororo waited, as there was clearly a silent exchange between the elders.  
"Please return tommarrow, Windrider." said the Helper, quietly. "And I shall tell what I know."  
"Thank you, elders." Ororo replied, and withdrew, her thoughts in a whirl.  
She had gone quickly from confusion to concern.  
What secrets were hidden out there on the savannah, sensed by Logan alone?

Ororo was coming back from the village when she caught a glimpse of Logan stretching luxuriously in the dusky sunlight.  
She almost dropped the small basket of vegetables she was carrying when she realized he was disrobing, totally unconcerned with who might see. It was a feral innocence that was facinating, a lack of concern with the enforced modesty of civilization.  
Ororo's eyes were fixed on the man before her, only a few yards away, and found herself unable to look away, much less move. Strange tingles flicked up her spine, seeming to bring alive nerves she had previously been aware of.  
He was - magnificant.  
She found herself noting the smooth ripple of muscle beneath sun-darkened skin, the restrained power in the compact frame.  
Logan kicked the pants absently aside and waded into the water, ducking briefly under the azure surface, coming up with water clinging to him as he set to rinsing himself off.  
_Goddess. _Ororo thought, leaning against a tree as she watched the man move, light softly faceting through the hundreds of tiny droplets that seemed to jeleously cling to his solid, strong form. _Goddess, help me... _She wasn't sure what she was asking for - help with what...?  
Her mind spun, but she couldn't seem to move or stop watching.  
A tiny part of her felt guilty for spying - but the far larger part was facinated in a way she had never known before.  
Feeling a soft flush of warmth flood through her body, Ororo watched with a kind of silent wonder as Logan waded further out into the water, then dove cleanly under, coming up a moment later to lazily stretch out in strong, powerful strokes.  
Ororo swallowed hard, aware of a gentle rush of rising fire that danced up from somewhere deep within her. It was a sensation she had never experianced, but one that tilted her world violently on it's ear.  
Not that she felt sorry for it - on the contrary, it was almost_...addictive_...in it's power.  
And she stood frozen, lost in a joined and rising fire in her blood.

She had to stop again, rubbing her face with water from what was in essance a glorified puddle.  
It was eerieely quiet.  
Glancing about her, she managed to force herself back to her feet, hissing when some of her weight fell on the now-agonizing left ankle.  
The sharp, grinding throbs were almost beyond her ability to ignore, even with constant snarls at herself to _move, move, damn you, move_! her speed was little better than an infant's crawl.  
Besides, she was getting dizzy, a bone-grinding, flash-in-the-eyes whirling, nausea-wrenching headache lashing through her skull. It made her wobble despite her efforts, and soon she had to lean on the staff she carried for all her weight.

Logan knew that she was watching, near the large cool-wideleaf-tree that he often favored for naps, her breathing light and quick, the scent of plant-chew-food wafting from the woven once-tree-thing she carried.  
He was puzzled.  
Under the normal layers of her facinating personal scent was uncertainty, confusion, hesitance.  
Kicking once, he made his way back to the edge of the water, and rose, sniffing the air.  
Lavender. Orchids. Warm almond. Wind. Sky.  
Sweet.  
Soft.  
He padded forward, ignoring the not-fur that he had worn, his gaze on where she stood, then padded around her, trying to discover what had distrirbed her.  
Sharp scent of startlement. Tinge of uncertianty.  
Flicker of rising heat-need, worry, confusion.  
He brought a paw up to gently pet her hair, uttering soothing rumbles.  
No danger-scent.  
Den-safe.  
He stroked her head-fur soothingly, trying to understand her concern.

Ororo gasped softly when the nude form of Logan suddenly moved toward her, but found herself trembling under his hands as he - _petted _- her.  
Low, gentle sounds soothed her as he stroked her hair, enveloped in a soft scent of cool water and - _maleness. _A spicy, heady scent that set the weather mutant trembling again.  
When her knees gave, he caught her, cradling her in strong, warm arms, eyes studying her with concern and restrained passion.  
_Goddess! _she thought, wildly. _He doesn't know, can't know, so hurt..._  
"Rrrrwwh?" The first attempt he'd made to communicate aloud. Gold-flicker-amber, warm and vivid, struggling for something, reaching out to her. Clearly, he had said her name. The name he had called her before.  
_'Ro? _his gaze asked her, arms still the only support for her, breath gentle on her cheek, body pressed close as he brought a hand up, knuckles gently running down the edge of Ororo's jawline.  
Glint of sharp canines, press of his face in her neck, her hair, as he inhaled her scent, all the while gently caressing her hair, her shoulders.  
She fought for a sense of duty, of responsibility for his injured psyche, but it was as if it was a mote in a sandstorm, flittering feebly against the incredible surge of sensation that seemed to wake her body from it's long slumber.  
Ororo found herself wrapping her arms around him, their weight supporting one another, an awareness of his gentle rumbles becoming closer to growls.  
Sounds of hunger, need. His hand gently brushed down her back, tracing the curve down over her buttocks, holding her tighter, lips gently brushing her throat, a low growl, gentle, but sharp pressure.  
"Goddess, Logan!" she gasped, eyes wide as she stared up at him, into golden fire that seemed to wrap around her very being, enveloping her in warm light. Her breath was no longer under her control, and a vauge sense of fear scrabbled at the back of her throat as she lost herself in the flashes of sensation, the dim awareness this was not simple lust - something else drove Logan - and her, by the Goddess, and her - at that moment. Something old as time, and new as birth. It burned and it flickered, as primal as creation, but not consuming, instead blazing a need through the core of her being.  
Logan's canines gently scraped her neck, trailing down her shoulder, as he growled low in his throat, not encumbered by the vaneer of civilization as he soothed her, lips coming up, gently pressing against her's.  
Ororo had always smiled in amusement at the idea of fireworks during a kiss, it had always seemed rather foolish, a symbol of inexperianced girlhood.  
But at that moment, pinpricks of light exploded behind her eyes, as a flood of fire blazed through her blood, all but throwing her forward into Logan's arms.  
Thunder cracked, as stormclouds gathered, dark and deep, thick and real, lit from within.  
A brief flicker of wild, almost incomprehensible thought - _So like Logan, so like..._  
Then she was returning his kiss with a wild abandon she had belived beyond her.

She tottered a few more steps, and finally had to lean against a rock to maintain her balance.  
Everything hurt now. Not just the agonizing ankle, so now the pain was simply a matter of degree. Waves of pain/discomfort/agony rippled through her conciousness, and she dimly realized  
that were interfering with her movement and balance.  
Gritted teeth didn't ease the pain so much as enabled her to endure it for the moment.  
Another step, a hiss, stumbled, was distantly aware that the coolness of her skin and dizziness were supposed to mean something, but it danced on the edge of her conciousness.  
She bumped into a rock, toes slamming against unyielding stone, and had to supress a yelp.  
Paused.  
Listened.  
The darkness hid movement, and she heard what had been bothering her for the last few - hours? Yes. Hours. It was difficult, increasingly so, to measure time accurately, even though she normally could do so with trained precision.  
Scuffing, whiffling sounds. A fiendish, lupine rasp-laugh.  
Hyenas.  
A pack of them, trailing her.  
They sensed her injuries.  
Thought her easy prey.  
She scowled inwardly.  
Others had thought the same thing.  
They'd been wrong too.

Ororo was floating on a blaze of desire.  
Logan's lips trailed her neck, slid over her shoulder.  
Tasting her. Kissing her.  
She couldn't get enough of it.  
Her hands traced his muscular back, exploring the tension there, the ripple and flow of restrained power there.  
His claws extended as he growled softly, gently stroking away her clothes, the only thing that covered her desire.  
Part of her screamed to stop, to back away, to think of Logan's inner turmoil - but his eyes held nothing but a kind of fiery purity.  
It seemed so natural, so _real, _and after a moment's shock she realized it _was _real.  
For him.  
For her.  
She had loved him a long time. A very long time. Since perhaps, that day she had thought he meant to kill a deer he had tracked on Xavier's estate.  
Ororo had thought that this feral, facinating, _primal _man had simply meant to kill it.  
She had seen his eyes, so used to being judged, being cast aside, cast out, that she had felt immediate guilt, immediate sorrow.  
But he had replied that the tracking had drawn him, not the need to simply kill.  
Over the years, he had been a gruff ear, a word of kindness, a tireless defender.  
He taught her to fight. Not the simple moves, she had learned them on the streets of Cairo, but when to choose them. And when to flee.  
She had fallen in love, and not known how to say the words.  
Watched him be betrayed, lost, hurt, alone.  
Now she moved closer to him, lips against the strong pulse in his neck, exulting in the strong vibration there, kissing the vein, trailing her lips along his warm skin.  
He tasted like cloves and hickory, a powerful taste that made her mouth water and her body fill with even stronger fire.  
As her thoughts flicked past her conciousness, she felt civilization's trappings being burned away, leaving not Storm, not the Windrider, only Ororo.  
Her clothes slid away.  
He gave a soft sound between a growl and a rumble, pressing her down against the grass, laying next to her, exploring her body with gentle, yet demanding hands, stroking her with a kind of feral desire that was even more arousing than studied effort.  
"Logan..." she whispered, voice thick with desire and need. "Logan..."  
"'Rrrrwo..." he replied, his tones harsh with his own emotions. Her name.  
His weight was supported by one arm as he moved atop her, nipping her nipple softly, elicting a muffled cry of pure pleasure.

Logan knew that she was _'Ro, _the name brought strong feelings of trust/need/desire/want.  
She tasted good, wonderful.  
Strong and sweet.  
_Alive._  
His gentle nip on her nipple brought a pleasure-cry, so he continued his explorations, stroking his paws softly down her sides, feeling the flutter of muscle there, the beginnings of her readiness-arousal.  
He felt the tension/heat in himself, but held it back in favor of tasting and caressing her.  
It was right, this touch/want.  
True.  
He was startled when a hand gently touched his erection, running a soft, delicate touch along the shaft.  
Pleasure. Hunger. Need.  
He kissed her hungrily, finding her lips, her throat, her breast.  
She caressed him, moved beneath him.  
He nipped her gently, needing her to be still.

Touching Logan seemed as natural as breathing to Ororo.  
None of the normal feelings of hesitance or momentarily embarassment were there, only desire and hunger, need and a dawning joy she had never imagined.  
When she tried to move, to press up against him, his sharp teeth pinched her skin, only enhansing her sense of pleasure.  
A low sound, a soft rumble, escaped Logan.  
It took a moment for her to realize it wasn't a growl at all.  
It was a _purr._  
Her caresses were driving the fire in him, and she delighted in the thought.  
Giving _Logan _pleasure.  
It was a powerful, heady feeling.  
Then she was rolled completely onto her back, his body rising above her, and she felt a smile trail across her face, feeling a fire that, oddly enough, gave her a strong sense of peace.

Logan let his body move slightly atop her, caressing her hair gently to calm her as he fought the feral urge to simply take her with savage force.  
This angered him.  
Take? Force?  
No!  
Want.  
Yes.  
Mate.  
_ Yes. Mate. Now._  
He felt the fire surge through him as he pushed in, heard her gasp, scented her pleasure.

_ Goddess, perfect_! Ororo's thoughts all but howled.  
The moment he was inside her was like a rising cresendo of desire/lust/need_/want_.  
She moved with him, his feral abandon not fearful but so erotic that she couldn't think, didn't want to think, only abandoned herself to feeling, to _feel._  
And she did, by the Goddess.  
So intently she fears she might lose conciousness.  
The rythem was fast, frantic, powerful.  
Like nothing she had ever imagined could exist.  
If she was wind and water, then Logan was earth and fire, a union of so primal and powerful a passion that it blazed through her like a wildfire.  
She felt his back rippling, the hardness of his buttocks, the heat radiating from him.  
Her fingernails scraped into his skin, drawing blood, as she approached the point of no return.  
An incomprehensible sound was coming from somewhere, a kind of chant that she only vaugely recognized as a combination of Logan's name and a plea for him to stay with her, connected to her_, fill _her.  
He arched his back as he thrust once more into her, howled his pleasure, his passion - and a love that defied the madness that had claimed his mind.  
Ororo cried out his name as thunder crashed, and the rains, at long last, came roaring from the skies.


	11. Availed of Thee

AVAILED OF THEE

Ororo woke slowly, feeling langerously peaceful and gently joyus.  
She was still cradled against Logan, who was stretched out next to her, arm comfortably nestled against her belly, legs entwined with her's.  
And she had never felt so loved - or so much love.  
It had been a _word, _romantic, perhaps, but just a word. An idea at best. A nebulous, ill-defined hope to be pursued, without a clear vision of what it truly _was._  
She knew, now.  
It was warmth, connection, burning fire and whirling wind, primal earth and soothing water.  
Joy.  
Hope.  
Fufillment.  
It was - _everything._  
She had never imagined there could be so much enjoyment gleaned from just watching another person sleep. But she did, watching Logan's chest rise and fall in steady rythem, the slow ripple of muscle against flesh.  
The rain trickled gently down the leaves, tapping lightly against their skin.  
But she was still warm.  
Inside and out.  
Finally, so very warm.

If there was one skill Remy LeBeau had mastered early, it was finding information - and people.  
He now searched carefully for any clue to the whereabouts of their missing companions, feet rebelliously perched on the edge of the desk as he tapped keys lightly with his sensitive fingers.  
Kurt was seated next to him, tail slowly twitching from side to side as he too searched through the records of the X-Men, trying to find a place that Ororo would have taken a wild, possibly dangerous, Logan.  
Rogue occasionally tapped her fingers impatiantly against the keyboard she had claimed, frustrated with the slowness of their pace. "How ya'll doin'?" she asked, voice showing her frustration.  
"Found one t'ing, _chere._" said Remy, staring steadily at the screen for a moment, memorizing the information, then turning back to his friends. "Xavier found 'Ro in dis area." His fingertip tapped the map he'd called up, indicating the area marked "unmapped" by the computer. "Maybe she go home."  
Rogue looked a bit puzzled. Even now, the idea of Logan so distanced from the group was almost frightening to the young woman.  
"Perhaps, _mein fruends, _she thought to take him as far from civilization as possible, away from us, the mansion." said Kurt, voice soft with sadness. "A place he could heal."  
The three mutants stared at one another, then, almost in unision, headed for the door.

When Logan woke, Ororo felt the gentle caress of his fingertips along her stomach. Was aware of the flutter of response there.  
Gently capturing that powerful hand, she brought it up to her lips, gently running her lips across the knuckles. Feeling the strength there.  
But more, feeling the warm glow of _connection, _of love, that pulsed from his palm.  
Feeling his breath soft on her neck, stirring her hair, she whispered, "Logan..."  
He purred her name - _'Ro - _wrapping his other arm around her, and nuzzled up against her neck.  
"I love you." whispered Ororo, voice soft but full of emotion.  
Sense of connection.  
Warm.  
Soft.  
Strong.  
Scent-image of her in safe-warm-hold-arms.  
_Mate._  
Love flowed through the sensation, a dancing ember that soared into fire and light.  
_ Mate._  
Ororo wept, against that warm palm, and was only dimly aware she was crying for joy.

Despite the fire she'd managed to get going, the first hyena advanced into the dim light about midnight, it's eyes glowing as it cackled harshly, head down beneath it's shoulders as the spotted, mildew-brown creature glared balefully at her.  
Swinging the staff as she balanced precariously on her good foot, she connected sqarely with the lupinoid's nose, eliciting an outraged yelp.  
_"Cela vous enseignera, laid!_" she snarled, spinning the staff easily over in her palm, tip coming to rest in a ready-guard.  
The rest of the pack were moving around, trying to flank her.  
Her response was to back up against the rock, gritting her teeth.  
Rustle of distant, incomprehensible sound.  
Swirl of soft, almost-unheard music.  
"What de...?" she shook her head hard, focusing on the circling pack.  
She had no time to consider the strangeness, nor the direction it came from.  
Two hyenas rushed her, a third leaping at her throat.  
Spinning frantically, cursing the injured foot, she slammed the staff into one's chest, throwing it forward to connect into the onrushing jaws of the other.  
The third crashed into her hard, bowling her off her feet and snapping at her throat.  
In order to grab the advancing muzzle, she had no choice but to relinquish the staff.  
Holding on to either side of the massive jaws, she struggled to keep the snapping teeth away from her vunerable throat. _O' all de stupid, useless power I get - _damnez-le!, _if only had strength like _Mama..._owtch! _With a snarl, she felt a blast of agony in her ankle and she was almost shocked when the beast flew back hard, yelping as it slammed into the ground.  
She was gasping as she scrambled out of the way, dimly aware of the thought _- adreniline! _- and watched the pack back up, clearly deciding to wait until she was unable to fight back.  
Damn them.  
A surge of anger, but she was unable to rise again, as pain shot up her leg.  
Flecks of shadow danced on the edges of her vision as she slumped, last concious thought of her beloved father, her mother-to-be, _sensei, _and friends that she had so miserably failed to live up to. Her final thought was: _Veuillez me pardonner... pour vous échouer.  
_  
Logan slowly sat up, then gently reached over and drew Ororo against him, inhaling her scent with the slow facination of a conosuir.  
Ororo found that simple action both erotic and, curiously enough, deeply flattering.  
His eyes met hers, as strong and warm as twin suns, warming her soul.  
The rain gently whispered down over them, soothing and cool as it caressed their skins.  
Logan ran his fingertips - long, curiously elegant, obviously powerful - down Ororo's cheek with such tenderness that tears came to her eyes.  
She pressed her lips gently against his forefinger, rested her cheek against his palm.  
Swirl of scent/sense/image.  
_ Hunt._  
_ Feed._  
_ Provide._  
He uttered a soft sound, more a croon than a rumble, and Ororo knew that she would never - lack - again.  
There was no more heady feeling, than knowing she was not only _loved, _but _safe._  
"I understand." she whispered, caressing the sharpness of his cheekbone, feeling the curious softness of his sideburns as she run her fingertips through the dark hair. "I'll be here, Logan."  
_Hunt. Feed. Bring. _promised the pulse of image/scent/thought.  
He cradled her a moment against his strong frame, then faded into the shadows.  
_Mate. Den. Bring.  
_  
Loping along the edge of the den-territory, Logan trailed the scent of fur-low-prey, trailed by the female lioness.  
Her scent was concerned as she stared at the huge horns of the wildebeasts lumbering with ponderous determination across the dusty savannah.  
_Prey? _the posture-scent-movement asked, uncertainly.  
Rising slightly to catch the wind-scent, Logan sniffed the air and caught the aroma of something - odd. Carrion-hunters and - strange.  
He growled, turning to the prey-animal.  
Rock-metal-strong taste.  
Scent of sharp skin-touch-water and hurt.  
Logan turned back, then stared at the meekly hunkered female.  
_Hunt here. _He turned her head to see the delicately poised oryx drinking at the watering hole. _Hunt._  
The female's posture was obediant but her ears showed puzzlement as the claw-hand-two-leg moved off, trailing the scent of the injured.  
To the lioness, the injured did not survive. The pride moved on so that it might survive. Her hunting companion's behavior was incomprehensible, but she turned her gaze on the small deer-like animal that had not yet gained her scent.

The hyena uttered another cackle, summoning the pack for another rush.  
It knew the prey was down, weakened. It could not use it's stick to cause more painful blows, and the pack would soon feast on the small interloper.  
A flash of movement, a slash of claws.  
Light flashed on claws as the female leader was rolled to the side, fangs narrowly missing her throat as Logan snarled his dominance.  
_Mine! _he warned, circling the pack. The territory was not their's. It was his!  
The downed figure remained in shadow, breathing low and laboured.  
Bearing his fangs, Logan advanced on the snarling, cackling pack, eyes catching color-light-danger from the reflected light of the sky-burn-orb.  
The lead female showed all her fangs in a response, threat-challange, and Logan leapt.  
Rolling the creature over in the dirt, he slammed the long head back against the dirt, aware of the yip-growl-rumbles of the rest of the pack, their uncertainty, their close observance.  
Again, he slammed the female hyena's head against the ground, again she tried to catch his fingers.  
He snarled, fangs glinting, eyes ablaze.  
Finally, his fingers found the life-pulse and the female yelped, then whined submissively, averting her eyes, aware that she was beaten.  
Logan growled, then let her up, and the two sized one another up.  
The female huffed, and her pack started off the opposite direction as Logan sniffed the still figure, aware of the too-coldness of the skin, the incoherant murmers.  
Gently but firmly, he shook the small female's shoulder.  
A low sound, mumble, then silence.  
Logan considered.  
Pack-thought said to leave the ones too weak to survive.  
It was hurt.  
For a moment, he swayed from side to side, torn between two different calls.  
Then he bent and swung the injured one over his shoulder, beginning a swift lope across the plain.

"It's started again." Hank's voice was thin with exaustion.  
"But Logan's immmunity..." began Jean, expression one of horror as the small group crowded around the microscope.  
"It gave us precious time, my friends." the blue-furred mutant said softly, running a hand over his head tiredly. "But it didn't cure it. The _k-o _virus is a learning virus - and learn it has." He sounded so very weary. "The Centers for Disease Control have managed to contain it thus far, but at the moment, we belive that the death toll is currently totalling in the tens of thousands - and rising daily."  
There was stunned, disbeliving silence.  
"How..." whispered Scott.  
"The virus is spreading now by airborne as well as physical contact. There is no true method to contain it completely." Hank rubbed his face wearily. "Our time has just run out."

"Are you sure this is the right place?" asked Rogue, peering over the side of the speeding Jeep.  
"Trust me_, chere_." replied the lanky Cajun. "De driver take us right t' de village t'mmorrow mornin'. We find dem."  
Kurt, wrapped in a trenchcoat and hat, effectively hidden from view, murmered a short, hopeful prayer for not only their missing friends, but them all.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE CAJUN (FRENCH)

_"Cela vous enseignera, laid!" _- "That'll teach you, ugly!"  
_Veuillez me pardonner... pour vous échouer_. - Please forgive me for failing you.


	12. Heart of Flame

HEART OF FLAME

_He is everything you want_  
_He is everything you need_  
_He is everything inside of you_  
_That you wish you could be  
_  
With Logan gone to hunt, Ororo took the time to bathe and think.  
Peacefully floating on the azure surface, she stared up into the soft white-blue swirl of the sky.  
And was beginning to understand.  
She was wind and rain, cool and soothing to others, thunder roiling within.  
Logan was fire and earth, blazing with banked fires outside, so bright hidden inside.  
Ororo knew - without a shred of doubt - why Jean had never accepted Logan's often wistful, heartbreaking love.  
She could not bear the flame.  
Jean, the Phoenix, firebird, friend. She burned bright and hot - but all too briefly.  
For Logan, the fire burned too bright for most souls to bear even sight of.  
They fled it, while aching for it's touch.  
His touch.  
Needing, fearing, fleeing, fighting, all so desperate for the fire and strength, light and power.  
And what society - say it - _civilization _- could not have, it brutalized.  
Made outcast, cast out.  
Yearned for.  
As Jean feared it. Feared the flame that was too deep, too strong for even the Phoenix to hold, to control. So she fled to Scott's loving arms, abandoning what would have been such joy.  
Ororo pitied her for the very first time, the flame-haired, beautiful Jean.  
Perfect and product of so many young men's dreams, the beauty she had on occasion envied.  
Now she saw the firebird, wings clipped, bitter in a way Jean did not understand.  
Wanting Scott, poor dear Scott, to be the man that Ororo had held, caressed, made love to.  
Flitting from one man's arms to flirt with the fire of a friend.  
Never again.  
Ororo had truly belived she would never find her soul's mate, the perfect love she yearned for in private, sometimes crying silently into the night.  
Never had she imagined that Logan, her dear friend, companion, and oft-time shoulder could become what she had needed and wanted so very long.  
No more could Jean use Logan as a tool to make Scott jealous at her convienience, convincing herself that it was a harmless act.  
It was not.  
Logan was no animal, nor was he merely a man.  
He was the first flash of birth, the last blaze of death.  
Beginning and end, fire beginning and earth to welcome.  
The cycle blazed in his soul, the eternal hunter and provider, the perfect, primal _male_, his two halves so strong they clashed in fiery shadow and earthen frankness.  
In another circumstance, he might say, yin and yang.  
Those were words, only words. Concepts, faint as gossomer breath of wind, hiding something deeper, more primal.  
What lived with her now was not a lessening.  
The two halves, tormented by men, savaged by civilization, rejected by all both held dear, had chosen what none of his team-mates had seen - did they even deserve the title, the privilage of friendship?  
Ororo frowned, flipping over to make her way back to the shore.  
Logan had found a beginning, a place his primal soul, so passionate and untamed, so _real_, could not merely mend, but unite.  
Ororo took a sip of the sweet, cool water, and swore a silent oath before the Goddess and all she held dear that she would never leave his side again.  
Tears formed in her eyes.  
Even if it meant rejecting the X-Men forever, Logan would never be alone again.  
Ever.  
He was growing into something more than the rejected, ostrasized _samurai_, the feral X-Man, the loner by need and civilization's darkest fears, something more than ever, she belived, they had imagined.  
Something more than the Wolverine.


	13. Of One's Own Concience

OF ONE'S OWN CONCIENCE

Logan approached his territory with a perfunctory sniff of the air.  
No sign of any interloper, no scent of danger.  
Only the clean liquid water-smell and faint tang of growing things - and the sweet, cloying scent of his mate, sitting near the den-tree.  
He adjusted his burden gently, aware of the rapid beat of the small one's heart.  
It was still asleep, hurt-asleep. Not quiet-sleeping.  
For some reason, this concerned him, as he loped into the clearing.  
He patted the small one, growling soothingly to end it's unconcious movements.  
Scenting the air, he rumbled softly, carefully lowering the small figure to the grass before tucking his mate under his chin and nuzzling her in greeting.  
She caressed his shoulders in return, and he held her a moment longer, stroking her head-fur contentedly.

Ororo was startled when she saw Logan lower a small figure to the ground near the huge tree roots on the left of the small lake, but nestled against him when he gathered her against him, rumbling a greeting.  
"Logan, what happened?" she asked, smoothing his hair tenderly.  
He cocked his head, sensing her puzzlement but not quite sure what was being asked.  
Ororo looked up into his eyes, saw a flicker of gold dance in his gaze, and smiled, momentarily lost in that vivid warmth.  
With an affectionate rumble, he caressed her hair again, then padded to the small figure shivering with fever under the tree. Curled in a ball, soft mumbles emerged from within the reddish coat, faint movement indicating the presence of heat exaustion.  
Ororo knelt down, carefully running her fingertips over the clammy, fair skin, frowned.  
Logan was smoothing cool water over the parched skin a moment later, trying to still the tremors that shook the thin frame with reassuring pats. He cocked his head, concern in his flickering gaze.  
Shivering, the small figure's eyes flickered, and Ororo checked the calming pulse, the regular breathing.  
Taking the thin wrist, Ororo was suprised at the twitch of muscles - the mark of an athlete more than a fragile youth.  
"Logan?" she asked, looking up into the sun-golden eyes that met her's.  
_Cub. Hurt. _was the pulse-eddy, touched with curiousity/puzzlement/concern.  
"Where did you find the child, my love?" Ororo asked, gently. She delighted in using the last two words, her heart speeding into a _thumm-thumm-thump _of joy and love.  
Logan's eyes had retreated to amber, clearly considering. Yet the flickers of golden that burned stubbornly near the iris spoke of love and tenderness, passion and trust.  
_Den-territory. Challenge. Cub. _Image-flickers of hyenas charging, feral defiance, claim of territory that would not yield. Yet - glimmering in the background was concern for the cub. Protect the cub.  
Ororo stroked Logan's cheek, hearing a soft thrumming rumble, almost a purr.  
"My love." she whispered, tears of pride and tenderness glowing in her eyes.  
Even now, Logan remained so quientessintally, completely - _Logan.  
_  
Remy spat road-dust from his mouth, passing Rogue his hankerchief and patting a coughing Kurt on the back.  
"Dis de place." he said, passing a generous tip to the driver.  
The sand-dust-heat was almost oppressive, and he watched in sympathetically as Kurt wiped his hand over his face, fur taking on a sheen that indicated his discomfort.  
"It's so hot." murmered Rogue, wiping her face.  
The Cajun nodded, taking out a canteen of water and passing it around.  
"Only way in is t' walk." he said, sympathetially.  
"Let us get started, then, _mein fruends._" said Kurt, softly, golden eyes seeing the distant Killamanjaro. Strangely, he also felt something old and strong, gentle as a heartbeat, honest as an infant's first breath. Something new, yet infinately full of life's passion. It radiated from the very soil, the stones, the air. His fur was caressed by the wind, as if the earth whispered a greeting.

Ororo almost started to laugh when she realized that it was time to go meet with old Mopati.  
She had no clothing, only the passion-shredded remains of such.  
Yet, this was not Victorian-influenced America.  
This was Africa, where nudity was no more than the expression of an individual, as simple as clothing in it's identification. Her people would not be concerned or shocked as such, and it struck her as amusing that _she _was so concerned.  
With deft movements, she salvaged enough from their clothing to create a simple covering that more was a two-piece bathing suit than American modesty.  
Logan had taken some of the oryx the lioness had returned with, leaving the vast majority for her to feed her cubs. Cutting it neatly into small, bite-sized chunks, he patted Ororo tenderly, watching attentively as she swallowed and smiled at him.  
He yawned a few moments later, and stretched luxuriously, and Ororo could not resist caressing his chest, feeling the smooth movement of powerful muscles - and more, the strong beat of his heart.  
"I need to go into the village, Logan." she said, caressing that silky hair, an almost dreamy smile touching her features.  
Flicker of intrest, sniffing her in concern, hands caressing her hair and shoulders, protective, oddly tender.  
"I'll be back soon, my love." she promised, as he tucked her briefly under his chin, giving a tender, soft sound between a croon and rumble.  
_Safe. _Logan was adament, in that swirl-eddy-pulse. _Mate. Safe._  
"I will be careful."  
_Soon. Back. Come. _Clearly, not only was he determined to wait for her, but if she did not return, he was promising to come for her.  
A surge of pure joy mixed with love rose in Ororo's heart, and she kissed him deeply, feeling the warm strength of his lips, tasting the power and depth of his breath, wanting momentarily to lose herself in that, to simply be _with _Logan.  
But she stroked his hair, then moved toward the village, aware of his eyes following her.  
Unable to hide the sheer femininity in her walk, secretly enjoying his intrested gaze.  
Casting off the habitual restraint that her time in America had taught her.  
Storm had returned to Africa, physically, only a few days before.  
But now Ororo returned in heart, mind, and soul.  
Now that she felt the joy and love in her heart, the passion and tenderness of loving Logan, she had finally come back.  
She was home.  
_ They _were _home._


	14. On Wings of Light

ON WINGS OF LIGHT

Ororo touched her lips absently and could not resist a soft, tender smile at the memory.  
Everything seemed brighter, more vivid, more _alive _than ever before.  
_She _was more alive than ever before.  
The walk toward the village was slow and langerous, not hurried, as she paused every few moments to enjoy the panorama her senses pieced together for her.  
Distant trickle-burble of water from the tiny waterfall. The soft rasp of leaves brushing together as a wind teased them with it's touch. The chirrup-whistle of a small flock of birds carolling sweetly in the trees.  
Memory of Logan's touch, his taste, his warmth.  
That hurried her steps a bit, but not for the village.  
Even the short seperation seemed to dim the world despite it's living brightness, and she wanted to be back to (_his arms) _by nightfall.

Logan did not like the seperation from his mate.  
She had gone to the warren of two-legs, his nose told him, and this brought a faint frown, despite his gentle pounce-play with the two young lion cubs that rolled and squealed at his knees.  
He cocked his head suddenly, coming alert a moment before the young lioness.  
The big cat growled low in her throat, ears flattening in warning-defense as she crouched over her cubs protectively.  
Logan's rumble told her to stay near the lake, guard her young, the injured cub - still unconcious - and den-protect.  
And he was moving with the ease and grace a lion could only envy through the branches.  
Two-legs had invaded his domain, his territory, and their scent carried the unpleasent tang of the cage-place, of danger and fear and scent-lies.  
Settling on a branch to watch the invaders' approach, Logan extended his claws and bared his fangs.  
They were looking for his mate.  
_Mine! _thought Logan, furiously, feral rage rising in his throat.  
His claws made a faint pattern in the air, but he observed in silence.  
Strange - cub-scent.  
Why had they left the alpha's territory?  
The beta had what he always fear-wanted - to be alpha, why had he not kept the three young ones in his no-scent lie-sense den?  
Logan growled low in his throat, and watched.  
If they threatened Skyfur-mate, they would not live long enough to regret it.

"We're lost." groaned Rogue, tromping noisily behind Kurt as Remy turned a bit to the left with a frown. She would have preferred to fly, but Kurt had wisely pointed out that landing near a feral Logan could provoke him.  
So they walked.  
Her feet ached.  
It seemed ridiculous, that with her near-invunerability her feet could pound so, but they did.  
"Remy, slow down, sugah." the young woman said, plunking down on a fallen log. "It's gettin' dark."  
Fire-on-shadow eyes regarded her for a moment, glinting behind the expensive glasses the Cajun was wearing, and he sat down on a stump in the small clearing, regarding the map with some irritation.  
"De place marked is off." he commented, as a faint breeze riffled the paper.  
Kurt chuckled. "We will find them, _mien fruends._" he comforted. "Cannot be too far, _ja?_"

Logan watched the strange behavior of Stripe and Fire-Eye.  
They bickered and worried over the dead tree-piece the young male held, but the watching figure caught the scent of want/need/fear/hope - the alpha must have chased them off when Stripe went into heat. Fire-Eye was obviously her mate, but he scented no cross-scent - perhaps the cubs were still too young. Seeking territory, pack-places.  
He snorted silently to himself.  
Nightfur - the scent made his nose twitch.  
Vauge memory.  
Laughter.  
The strange noise-sound that told one's thoughts.  
Yes, Nightfur was pack, had never challanged, he was the omega, but without the omega, the pack would not have it's comforter, the one who kept place-battles bloodless - what was the beta thinking?!  
Obviously, the cubs had not been taught to respect territory, and this made him circle, positioning himself near enough to observe.  
Fire-Eye and Stripe were still yipping like the cubs they were, but Nightfur's gentle rumbles kept them from a roll, the bear of throats.  
Logan sniffed the air, eyes narrowing.  
Flat and strange, the eye-hiders Fire-Eye wore were tucked away, and he looked around carefully.  
Time to teach the cubs their place, before a kill-hunter came looking for them.

A shadow flickered, Rogue had enough time to shout a warning, as Kurt was snatched up, carried into the trees, in one smooth, easy motion.  
Remy spun, reflexively charging a card, and a sharp swat between his shoulder blades sent him face-first into the dust, tumbling into Rogue on the way down.  
The pair untangeled themselves too late to stop the shadowy figure, but Remy yelled, "Logan!" and set off after them in a run.

Logan growled, giving Nightfur a sharp thump with his paw when he moved to leap from his shoulder.  
The yellow eyes met gold, and again, the black-furred young mutant was thumped, not hard, just with exasperation.  
Finally, Kurt stayed still until he was set down on a thick branch.  
"Logan?" he asked, tenatively.

The other mutant growled, clamping his fangs over the cub's neck sternly.  
Wisely, the cub became still, and Logan listened to the crashes of the other two.  
The beta had not taught them to flow through their own territory, much less his.  
Nightfur was yelping softly, worried about his littermates, and Logan forced him back against the treetrunk, baring his fangs in warning.  
The cub was still again, and Logan set a paw on his chest, keeping him immobile, listening to the awkward crashes of the other two cubs as they made their way toward his location, high in the boughs of the ancient tree.  
Thunder cracked in the distance, announcing a soft current of a breeze, and Logan tilted his head back a bit, aware of the still cub behind him.  
The sky-lights that came reminded him of Skyfur-mate.  
She would be at the two-legs warren by now.  
He sniffed the air, remained still.  
Flicker of awareness, of wrapping his body around his mate, paw caressing her head-fur, of flying-without-wings as he stroked her back and held her against him.  
_Mate. Safe. Warm. _Answering that call, he flicked the now-sqirming cub sharply on the tip of it's nose and flipped the slender form over his shoulder, leading the other two through the dangers of his domain.  
_Cub. Protect. _The scent-ripple-awareness reached the lioness down by the lake, and he knew when she raked her claws in the soft soil in reply, her cubs mewling beneath her. _Protect. No-kill wait._  
It would not do to have the lioness rend the noisy cubs beneath his swiftly moving form, and he emphasized that, in the flicker-awareness that he sent.  
The first drop of rain flicked against his cheek then.  
Logan smiled.


	15. Keeper of Faith

KEEPER OF FAITH

Ororo reached the village and smiled warmly as a boy, perhaps nine years old, moved forward shyly and asked, "Are you truly the Windrider?"  
The open innocence of a child that she saw in his blue eyes - eyes so intense a light blue they were actually violet. He was wearing unusual clothes for a child, a long piece of skin had been wrapped neatly around his head, so that none of his head above his eyes showed.  
She was a bit startled by the unusual, bright eyes so rare among her people, and felt a warmth toward the child, understanding in a flash of insight that he must have been seen as unusual - and then felt a surge of sorrow when she saw his left leg.  
Bent awkwardly, it was clear the boy was lame.  
Unable to hunt or run with his age-mates, his lonliness must have been similar to her own.  
"I am." She knelt down to be on eye-level with the youngster. "What is your name, child?"  
"My grandmother calls me Kafele." the boy replied, looking down. "My name is Kafele Munroe."  
Ororo's widened. "Munroe?" she whispered, startled.  
The boy looked down. "My father was from not from the tribe." he whispered.  
_Could he be...no, not possible. _Ororo thought, firmly.  
"Will you walk with me, Kafele?" she asked, smiling again, with honest warmth.  
The boy looked suprised, and nodded his head with such delighted energy his head covering slipped a tiny bit, falling off onto his shoulder.  
Cloud-white hair tumbled free, and Ororo could not stop the tiny gasp that emerged, stunned, from her lips.

Logan was faintly amused by the crashing and yips of the cubs below.  
Keeping Nightfur still, he bared his fangs briefly in a stern command to remain in his current place and leapt easily to another limb.  
Waiting patiently, he abrubtly reached down and whipped Fire-Eye up into the tree, nipping his neck in warning, holding him still.  
Stripe yipped worriedly, but she was headed for the den, and Logan sprang back to where he had kept Nightfur, shoving the other cub down next to him with a stern growl.  
Fire-Eye gave a whine, worrying clearly, and Logan growled again.  
A roar nearby told him that the she-lion had found Stripe, and would hold her near the injured cub's tree in the den-place.  
Logan growled, indicating the ground to the cubs.  
Time they were herded in-den.  
Bright-overhead told him that soon it would be too hot for hunting, and the cubs needed shelter.

Remy glanced at Kurt and whispered, "He still feral_, mon ami_?"  
_"Ja_. Or something like. I have never seen him quite like this_, mein freund_."  
Logan abrubtly grabbed Kurt and tossed him over his shoulder with a sigh of exasperation and grabbed Remy by the front of his trenchcoat, hauling them bodily down to the ground and marching the startled Cajun quickly into a grove.  
_"Mon Dieu_." whispered Remy, a bit awed by the natural beauty he saw unfolded before him.  
Logan gave another snort and shoved him lightly in the back, over to where Rogue was watching a circling lioness with angry eyes.  
When she prepared to take a swing at the predator, Logan simply swept her feet out from under her and set his fangs at her throat with a warning growl.  
"Remy!" she almost yelled, not sure if she should simply grab Logan and take off or fight.  
"I wouldn' try it." came a curiously accentless young voice, from the shadows of the big tree near the small lake.

Pounding temples told her she was awake, and she sat up with care, watching the three mutants that Logan had just deposited.  
"He's gettin' pretty annoyed with ya."  
The tallest of the trio looked over at her, giving her a strange look - an all too _familar_ look - but she shoved the ache in her heart down and focused on the group.  
It made it easier to bear.  
"She not here."  
"Ororo's here?" asked the woman, finally freed from Logan's stern grip.  
"Not at d ::cough:: the moment." replied the teen-ager, grateful for the shadows that concealed her.

"We promised you a tale, Windrider, and I shall tell it." said old Mopati, passing a glass of water to the young woman and smiling gently at Kafele.  
Ororo nodded, sinking gracefully down into a cross-legged position across from the old man.  
"When even our lands were young, an old people travelled down the great river and brought us gifts of wisdom and compassion." The old voice was resonant and strong, and soon even the boy was caught up in the tale. "They became our friends and companions, keepers of law and tradition of both their lands and ours. Soon we were part of them, and they of us. Many songs were sung of their great and wise rulers, but none so much as the one they called Rameses, the great king of his land."  
_Egypt, here? _Ororo was a bit startled.  
"Most know of the great monument of love he built to his beloved wife, Abu Simbel, the place of elephants, but few know of Khuru, the place of wisdom."  
Ororo unconciously leaned forward, facinated.  
"This he built for the greatest of their generals, who was old when Ramses was born. They said Osiris blessed him, for no age touched him, and he taught the warriors of both our peoples that peace is the greatest of skills a warrior might have."  
Ororo wasn't sure that she was sure where this was leading, but a strange sensation was building in the pit of her stomach.  
"Then the other came, killer of innocence, seeking mastery of the land of Khem." Mopati was drawing faint diagrams to aid in his story, and it was clear that this person was considered monsterous. "The general clashed with him, and the son of Set was driven back, again and again, from our lands. Many warriors lived and died while the general kept the lands safe - until the Set-son came once more, with a legion of black hearts at his command. The general suffered grevious harm, but delivered such a blow to the Set-son that his features showed forever the evil in his heart."  
Mopati paused, then regarded the Windrider, their goddess, with inscrutable eyes.  
"Great was both our lands grief when the general, our protector, the lion of Khem, returned to the great palace of Ramses weary and greviously wounded. Forbidding the Rites of Eternity, he chose only to be placed in a simple rock tomb," and he gestured with his staff, "out on our savannah, where the forces of storm and sky would watch over him."  
"He...died?" Ororo thought vaugely_, Logan's ancestor?_  
"Oh, no." Mopati shook his head. "He slept and woke many times, always coming to the aid of the helpless." His eyes darkened, showing grief and anger. "This last cycle he was shown nothing but pain and rejection, and the Place of Peace remains empty, it's secret passed down in our tribe alone. The stones sing for him, keeping alive our hope he will return and remember, so that we might give him once more what he gave us: home, family, belonging..."  
"Goddess, oh Goddess...." Ororo suddenly felt all the pieces fall in place, feeling a strangely blended sense of shock, worry, love - and a kind of wild pride. "Logan. The general - _is Logan!"  
_  
TBC in _For Every Season_! :)


	16. For Every Season

FOR EVERY SEASON

The Blackbird was in flight, soaring silently over the ocean.  
Scott was at the controls, while Jean sat nearby, glancing up occasionally, then returning to her thoughts.  
"I can't belive those three took off like that." it was Warren, his feathery wings folded tight against him, who spoke.  
Bobby turned back from staring out the window, regarded him a moment, then said softly, "I can."  
Warren glanced back at him, puzzled.  
"Well, none of 'em were there when...well, you know. Neither was I, and niether were you. That's why we're here, right, Hank?"  
The blue-furred mutant looked sad as he gently replaced two collars - similar to the ones made not so long ago in Genosha - in their case. "That is an extremely astute observation." he said, softly.  
"Logan was safe at home." Jean said, abruptly. "I don't understand why Ororo left, we were going to help him, we still want to help him..."

"Some help." said a small, distant figure, eyes open behind aviator sunglasses. She was careful to control every word, every gesture, around the three who were settled near the pacing lioness, ready for anything.  
She knew better than to give herself away, hell, she'd spent a large portion of her remembered life learning that - often the hard way.  
Logan growled, low in his throat, and returned to pacing back and forth, eyes glittering with gold-amber every time he passed a small path in the trees.  
"Hey, she...um, she'll be back soon." the girl said, rising to place an experimental weight on her aching ankle. It held, though a faint crackle of pain shot up her spine.  
_About time, _she told herself, irritably. _Ya'd think with a healing factor thing this would be faster..._  
"Who are you?" asked Rogue, from her postition next to Remy.  
"....Call me Kanoni." _Glad I read that book on Africa, _she thought, forcing herself to think in clear English. Not as easy a task as she hoped, but she had managed tougher things.  
"_Bonjour, _Kanoni." said Remy, putting an arm around Rogue, and looking pleased when she didn't shake it off. He didn't notice her quick, almost aching glance before she squashed it down.  
"What are you doing here?" asked Rogue, as the lioness finally lay down, regarding the newcomers with a baleful green gaze. Tiny squeeks announced the arrival of her two cubs, which she held down and washed, reassuring herself they were safe and well.  
Kurt rose slowly, aware of Logan's glance in his direction, and extended a hand to the pale cub, which wobbled forward and sniffed his fingers curiously. He smiled, murmering, "_Nett katze._"  
Logan padded over, a soft growl in his throat, and the lion kittens mobbed him, nipping with their milk-teeth and squealing when he herded them back over to their mother for a nap.  
It was then Rogue noticed Logan's clothing - or complete lack thereof - and actually blushed.  
The older mutant sniffed the air, uttered a reassuring growl, and crouched to watch the path, largely ignoring them.

_Cubs. _The thought was part-exasperated, part affectionate. Noisy and active as the three were, he wondered where the beta was.  
Image-thoughts brought a faint snarl, the slight lifting of his lip to reveal fangs.  
The beta would not be welcome here. This was not his place.  
_Mine. _growled Logan to himself. A low rumble overhead made him glance up, and he saw the black-strange not-bird pass overhead. Unconciously, his claws extended, then retracted.  
So. The beta was determined to fight for pack-place? Another faint snarl.  
This was not his place.  
Even if the place-battle had to be fought, he would put the beta in his place.  
This was not the beta's place.  
No.  
_Mine. _thought Logan, and it made him turn to gaze down the path, where the scent of Skyfur-mate grew closer. This brought a soft, possessive rumble to his throat as he rose. Thinking again, though for different reasons, _Mine!  
_  
Ororo was more than a little startled when three familiar figures rose to start toward her.  
Logan was between them in a moment, claws unsheathed and fangs beared, and she felt a surge of irritated anger - though not at her lover. At those she had once called friend, even family.  
At the X-Men.  
Couldn't they leave them be?  
"Ororo!" called Rogue, startled when Logan growled sternly at her, lifting a hand, claws extended, in a warning gesture.  
Without thinking, Ororo rested a gentle hand on Logan's tense shoulder, stepped up around him but not past him, aware of his alert almost-anger - and somehow, a ripple of awareness warned her of a large black thing passing overhead.  
"The X-Men." Ororo's beautful face did not fill with relief or affection at the words, not this time.  
Instead, a lightning-spark glowed in her eyes as Logan gathered her to him, stroking her hair lightly, sniffing her in concern.

Not-pack human-scent was strong on his mate, but Logan chose to ignore that for a moment.  
Skyfur-mate was angry, angry at the strange black not-bird - at the beta.  
He soothed her gently, regarding the cubs with eyes that almost seemed to glow.  
They were safe in the den, and this was the place they should stay.  
_ Beta_. The thought brought images that were not entirely hostile. Once, the beta had been, had been...  
Been what?  
Smaller brother. Trusted. Pack-leader with him near to protect him from cub-error...  
Friend.  
This brought a cock of his head, then a violent shake of it.  
Now...  
Pack-betrayal.  
This brought a series of slash-angry-whirls of thought-emotion that distressed him.  
He was lone - no.  
Skyfur-mate.  
Not lone.  
New pack.  
Yes.  
He calmed then, uttering a low purring rumble and nuzzling his distressed mate gently, comfortingly.  
Pack.  
His pack.  
Mate.  
Pack.  
_His _pack.  
Logan growled, communicating his disquiet to Skyfur-mate while soothing her own roiling emotions.

"Logan will not tolerate the X-Men here." Ororo's voice was almost cold, until the lion cubs wobbled over to greet her, weaving through her and Logan's legs in an attempt to persuade them to play.  
"I know what happened was horrible..." began Kurt.  
"No, Kurt." Ororo shook her head as Logan crouched to allow the cubs to nuzzle against him. "You don't know. May the Goddess grant you _never _know."  
None of them had ever heard so much anger in the weather mutant's voice.  
Overhead, thunder boomed in empathy with her emotions, as the clouds darkened, lightning flickering within them.  
"He's been pretty cranky." the voice floated from the area near the trees, where the injured girl sat, petting the head of the curious lioness.  
Ororo managed a smile for her, though inside, she fought down both anger and fear.  
She couldn't forgive her former teammates, but niether did she want a full-scale battle that might injure Logan - or even them.  
Even now, she could not find it in her heart to hate them.  
Logan didn't.  
But the bonds he had laborously forged were frayed and torn, at very best. He would fight to drive them away, and the X-Men...well, she could think of only one reason they would have come looking, and she would not have it.  
"Logan." she said, aware of the golden gaze that met her's, full of a love that made her heart seem to take flight despite her thoughts. "Stay here. Please."  
_Mate. Protect. _the image-thought-emotions were powerful enough to make her almost reconsider, but she forced herself to hold his face - his strong, beautiful face - in both her hands and whisper gently to him.  
"My love." For his ears alone. It seemed almost sacred at that moment, something she was not willing to share with the newcomers.  
Finally, reluctantly, Logan seemed to agree, though it was clear he would not stay behind for long.  
Not when she was in danger.  
This was about trusting her, beliving in her, and despite his instinctive, primal thoughts, he let her go.  
"Ororo!" called Remy, and she paused.  
"Be careful..._Soeur, oui?_"  
Feeling the prick of tears in her eyes, Ororo nodded once and was gone.  
Logan watched them alertly, eyes shadowed with gold and amber.  
The lion kittens, however, rolled and tussled in the soft leaves, unconcerned.

TRANSLATIONS

_Nett katze _- Cute kitten  
_Soeur _ - Sister


	17. In Memories of Flowers

IN MEMORIES OF FLOWERS

Logan was not pleased.  
Not at _all._  
Skyfur-mate had headed into the trees, toward where the black not-bird thing had come down, and he was restless. Swaying slightly to the almost-silent tune of the wind, he ignored Fire-Eye and Stripe yipping, and the cautious movements of Nightfur.  
He rose to stand fully on his back legs, sniffing the air, catching the scents of the three two-leg cubs and sighed to himself.  
Skyfur-mate was strong, his mate.  
But...the black not-bird brought a faint snarl to his face as he prowled the glade, watching the cubs and the lioness.  
Waiting for his mate.

Moving with a graceful combination of anger and resentment, Ororo made her way through the underbrush, and came to a halt near a great elder of a tree, hand absently stroking it as she listened to Warren and Jean talking.  
Scott and Hank were looking down at a small screen in the leader's hands, and Bobby had a curious, awed expression on his young face.  
"We've got to find Ororo and Logan." said Jean, eyes sweeping the area.  
"I just hope Wolverine hasn't hurt her." Warren said, lip giving the faintest curl.  
Ororo almost laughed.  
Almost.  
_Hurt? _she snorted. _I've never been so healed!_  
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the clearing.

"It's not too late." the small figure said, absently, running a fingertip over a small pendant she wore.  
"Too late?" Rogue asked, turning to stare curiously at the girl.  
"Long story." the other replied, eyes closed, deep in thought. "But it look...ahem...looks like it may get worse before it gets better."  
"_Ce qui?_" asked Remy, and opened his mouth to translate.  
"I mean that people have already died."  
Remy's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and the girl leaned back again.  
Logan returned to pacing, rumbling uncomfortably under his breath.  
_Mate. Protect. _was the feeling/thought most dominant in his mind. _Mate. Safe. Mate...Mate...  
_  
"Ororo!" Jean's raised hand and smile seemed to wither when she saw the expression on her friend's face.  
"What are you doing here?" Ororo's voice was curt, falling just beneath hostile.  
Jean looked taken aback, and Warren frowned, jumping into the converstation.  
"We've come to take you home." he began.  
Ororo laughed, almost harshly. "This _is _my home." she said, quietly, eyes blazing.  
"But Logan...."  
"This is also _his _home."  
"Ororo," Scott said, softly. "Is Logan all right?"  
"Now you ask." the weather mutant said, feeling fury blazing in her stomach, up her throat. "Now that you need something, _now _you ask! So now he means something, because you need him?" Her voice was rising, rage blazing so bright her eyes sparked and flashed. "When one among you - the X-Men - must suffer, call in Wolverine? When someone has make a sacrifice, he's one of you?"  
Everyone was gawking, completely caught off guard.  
Warren sputtered, "Wait a minute now, we gave him a home..."  
"YOU GAVE HIM NOTHING!" Storm roared, in excellent imitation of her lover. "You gave him a _mission!_ Where were all of you, when his heart was breaking? Where were you when his life was ripped apart?" She mimiced various ones of their voices viciously. "Oh, it's just Wolverine. He'll get over it. He's just having one of his tantrums!"  
"Ororo..." Scott extended a hand, eyes pleading. "Maybe you're right, but things....are very bad. More than twenty-five thousand people are dead...or dying. I wish to God there was another way, but we _need _Logan...desperately. Please understand, Ororo. Please....forgive us?"  
A metal click around her neck and a sickening feeling of being - _disconnected _- and Ororo cried out in anguish.  
The very friends she had prayed would understand....were using her as a trap.

Logan's head snapped up, and he growled a command. Instantly, the lioness came over and pressed her head against his stomach.  
Holding either side of the big cat's head, Logan let her know to guard the cubs. To keep them safe from those that had invaded his territory.  
Then he leapt up into the treelimbs, and headed for the clearing.

"No!" Ororo cried, pulling frantically on the thin metal band. "Stop! Don't do this!"  
Then there was a roar, and Scott reflexively snapped open his visor, ruby beam striking the charging man.  
Ororo's eyes closed, then opened.  
The bright beam caught Logan full in the chest....  
And nothing happened.  
Swiping the younger man to the ground, Logan kicked Jean's legs out from under her, snatched Warren's left wing, and sent the mutant known as Angel flying unceremoniously into Jean.  
Logan sniffed the air, extended a claw, and Ororo felt the thin adamantium band fall away.  
"No." The voice was low and raspy, claws out, swinging Scott in front of him. "Bad. Stay."  
Ororo rested a hand on the tense arm, felt his welcoming nuzzle, then Logan tossed Scott into the tangle of arms and legs. "Logan?" Gently, she caressed his sharp-swept mane from his eyes.  
"Bad. Go." He growled, indicating the recovering X-Men.  
Ororo held his face gently, aware of the glowing gold of his eyes. "It's all right." she soothed, stroking his shoulder, then gently winding her fingers through his.  
"No. Not hurt Mate. Bad." Logan growled, canines glinting in warning.  
Jean started to concentrate, and Logan's response was memorable. He popped all his claws, and snarled. "No! Not in! Bad!" And cuffed her hard on the temple.  
Jean landed on her backside, eyes huge in disbelief. _No-one _had struck her since she was fourteen years old, least of all Logan, whom she _knew _still had a wistful love for her.  
Logan scooped Ororo up and leapt easily into the trees. Once there, he nuzzled and sniffed her, tucking her under his chin and uttering soothing noises.  
"They won't leave, my love." Ororo said, softly, closing her eyes as she felt him move easily from limb to limb. "They...need you."  
There was a long pause, and, using sensitive fingertips, Logan began to groom her hair.  
"Mate...need?" Logan asked, voice still a rasp-growl.  
"Yes, love." Ororo felt tears fall, saw them flow faintly down his forearm. He nuzzled her, licking her face reassuringly in an oddly tender gesture. "I...need you." _More than you can imagine._  
"Mate...safe. Keep...here...den...safe." The labored, raspy-words were almost incomprensible, as his eyes began to return to amber.  
Ororo cupped his chin, whispering, "I love you too."  
Logan grunted, then held her tighter, fangs visible as the X-Men began to explore the area.  
Ororo frowned suddenly.  
Jean Grey was one of the most powerful telepaths on Earth, yet from their voices, she could not detect Logan - at all?  
Ororo looked up at Logan, who was utterly still, face hidden in shadow save for the faint glow of amber eyes.

"What is that?" asked Rogue, partially curious, partially bored.  
The girl smiled faintly, stopping the spin of her pendant. "This?" she asked.  
"_Oui_." Remy added, smiling innocently at Rogue, who actually smiled back.  
"It's old. Got it from a - very good man, who's gone now."  
"It looks like it might be Japanese." Kurt added in his voice, from where he sat indian-style, the tawny lion cub asleep in his lap.  
"It is." She replied, tucking it away. "Symbol of a very old clan."  
Now Rogue WAS curious. "Which one?" she asked, grateful for Remy's warmth.  
"Clan Yoshida."


End file.
